Poetry by Deborah Brink Wöehrmann
in memory, for Antje E. Kaiser
I was 33 by the time I met
an artichoke rooted in dirt. Steamed and
soaked in garlic butter, I’d eaten leaves
my teeth scarping each piece clean. Along this
highway, Mom pulled over near the loaded
truck―these creatures that appeared only once
a year. We three kids grabbed and snatched until
down to the heart which―surprising to me
now―we shared in equal parts. But, I was
33 on Larch Street living across
from the football field when my neighbor took
me into her backyard. On the east side
grew two plants with spiky purple flowers
and I jumped with joy as if thinking all
these years this jovial plant grew only
in the bed of a pick-up truck parked
along my childhood highway. The fun
we had laughing at how our father was
missing out, how he’d never understand
which left more for each of us and what if
I wonder now, we had planted some of
those miracles in our backyard garden
near corn and carrots, pigs and cows―tending
them each morning as we did the horses.
Child of the Northwest, Deborah Brink Wöhrmann lives in Portland with her husband and dog, garden, neighbors and friends writing, cooking, hiking and musing. Also a massage therapist, she marvels at the mind’s impact on how we move and feel in the world―and the body’s ability to wake the spirit and alter our way of seeing and being. She taught writing and literature for nearly two decades and has published poems and articles along the way. A lapsed blogger at Lives Inspiring Today (www.l-i-t.org), Backtalk, a novel for young readers, is in progress.