I don’t call.
There is the time difference, yes.
The matter of other relationships, granted.
I don’t call.
Instead I make a marinade for supper—
soy sauce, sugar, juice of tangerine,
some garlic. Fresh ginger.
And the star anise.
Scent of licorice.
Delicate like the spines of a starfish.
So lovely.
I stir it in and watch
as the star sinks to the bottom of the bowl
where it lies winking: your life, your life,
what have you done with your life?
I stir it into silence,
into submission,
where it lies steeping, steeping.

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by Kimberly L. Becker

Kimberly L. Becker's poems appear or are forthcoming in journals such as Apple Valley Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Eclectica, Triplopia, Borderlands, Ghoti Magazine, Poemeleon, and Umbrella, as well as in an anthology of contemporary women’s poetry, Letters to the World (Red Hen Press). She holds degrees from UNC-Chapel Hill (BA, MA) and Virginia Seminary (MDiv) and was awarded a state fellowship in fiction (NJ). A Southerner of European and Cherokee descent, she lives in the Washington, DC area.

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© 2007 Kimberly L. Becker