As the world warms, I think of my grandchildren, not yet conceived.
I make my son’s favorite stew, extra pepper; my husband
cuts biscuits, compensating for his bad hand, the scars
thick and twisty as dough. We bump into each other
in our awkward kitchen, apologize or not, reminisce
or not; no need any more to always talk.
We break out the good prosecco we got on special.
I give the stew a stir. It bubbles long and slow, lazy
attention all it needs. Steam creeps up the window panes
as the sickle moon peeks in. The dog trips over us
to welcome my son and his love home.
I think of the curled hands of their babies.
Dorian Kotsiopoulos’s work has appeared in literary and medical journals, including New England Journal of Medicine, On the Seawall, Poet Lore, Salamander, Smartish Pace, and Third Wednesday. She is a reviewer for the Bellevue Literary Review and a co-director of the Chapter & Verse Reading Series in Boston.