Whiskey and a Slice of Pie by Lex Runciman

That’s her, 1962,
Though she’d hate my saying so.
Early Times, her phrasing I remember –
Early Times Mist, vodka martini for dad,
Two, maybe three, before the entrees arrive,
And we, my brother and I, yet learning

To wait, sit, not fidget –
Restaurant manners matter.
And on July 4th, the pie was apple, usually,
Rhubarb, sometimes, as she favored –
The key for us of course, sugar, sweetness,
Not bourbon’s bite.

Summer at last. With soapy water
We have brushed the redwood table clean.
Cigarette lit, first drink in hand, she loves us more,
And any pie with ice cream comes welcome.
Whiskey. Slice of pie. Screen door
She backs open with her hip –

She’s carrying a bowl and plate-laden tray.
I miss her. There she is.

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Lex Runciman has published six collections of poems, including most recently One Hour That Morning (2014) and Salt Moons: Poems 1981-2016, both from Salmon Poetry. An earlier volume won the Oregon Book Award; individual poems have been recognized with the Silcox Prize and the Kenneth O. Hanson award. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

Photo: Annie Spratt