Blue Mountain Arts Poetry Contest

Symphony
by Amber Partin

THirty-FIFTH
Contest
Honorable Mention

I hand the baby her half of a banana
and eat the other, while I set the kettle on the flames.
Soon, it joyfully calls to me and I swing
the bag of Rooibos into the mug.
This is followed by water and clouds.
I skin a grapefruit and unfold it on a paper towel
because I am out of flowered napkins. The baby
sucks her cup of milk by my bare feet.
I wear a pair of jeans with holes in the thighs
because they are the most comfortable pair
and the baby wears her pajamas
because it is laundry day.
The washer bubbles and the dryer bangs
with my husband’s pocket change
and possibly a belt buckle; I stop the dryer
and check on that.
The baby helps me fold underwear and we play
peekaboo with my blouses and sweaters.
I lie down on the fresh bedding
and the baby curls into the crook of my arm
and breathes like a summer draft from a bright window.
We sleep like this for an hour or so and wake up
for a snack: peanut butter and crackers.
I place the baby on my hip and push the vacuum
across the living room. The baby presses her face
against mine and hums low — the same note as the suction
and brushes. She does this every time.
I toss a squiggle of hamburger
into my cast-iron skillet and a fragrant crackle follows.
In 42 minutes there is a pillow of lasagna
that my husband eats in his chair by the window.
The baby slurps at the sauce and bares her teeth
with a red and oregano grin.
I load the dishwasher with a jingle of silverware
push the button, and listen to the sudsy flood.
I bathe the baby in a milky soup of soap
and rubber toys. She later mutters in her sleep
and my husband pulls the quilt to his shoulders.
I unload the dishwasher and open the patio doors
stand with my toe tips touching the twilight.
A wind from the plains comes to me
with a tang of wild onion. The streetlamp gives a buzz
of ginger light. This startles a sparrow from sleep.
I imagine her spreading her shawl of feathers
over the sharp and hungry faces
in the nest, comforting them with a tired symphony.

About the Author
Amber Partin lives in the Midwest with her husband and daughter. When she’s not writing, you can find her at the archery range or rummaging through antique shops.