When Jennie sent fattigmann to her children
She packed them in popcorn, having read once
How corn cushions against the slings and arrows
Of outrageous postal clerks. We grew up
Norwegian, eating cardamom-flavored brown
Popcorn. Well, Jennie said, do you want
Fattigmann or don't you: logic like cookies
Jennie loved to sort through those upstairs
Places where she hid the past, finding old
Photographs and report cards, surprising us
With harbored care for what we were and are,
Teaching us to blush. Well, she said, those
Were tender times. Norwegian sentiment still
Surprises us who hide our warmest wants
Jennie abhorred a verbal vacuum, tamping us full
With reminiscence, following us to our cars
Like her father before her, who running-board
Hopped his friends goodbye. John and Jennie
Are in our genes, our poetry and talk
Jennie hung tight when the times were mean
Hiding her tears with sudden colds, pretending
To blow her nose in flowered little handkerchiefs
Twenty years Jennie carried children in and out
Of her bending body, a hovered look about her
As if curled down in care, watching them go
Long after they turned last to wave goodbye
Sending birthday and holiday cards with salutations
Penned in and blessings added; sometimes fattigmann
Counting grandchildren, writing their names among
The others for whom she cared in the small book
That smells faintly still of popcorn and cardamom
She packed them in popcorn, having read once
How corn cushions against the slings and arrows
Of outrageous postal clerks. We grew up
Norwegian, eating cardamom-flavored brown
Popcorn. Well, Jennie said, do you want
Fattigmann or don't you: logic like cookies
Jennie loved to sort through those upstairs
Places where she hid the past, finding old
Photographs and report cards, surprising us
With harbored care for what we were and are,
Teaching us to blush. Well, she said, those
Were tender times. Norwegian sentiment still
Surprises us who hide our warmest wants
Jennie abhorred a verbal vacuum, tamping us full
With reminiscence, following us to our cars
Like her father before her, who running-board
Hopped his friends goodbye. John and Jennie
Are in our genes, our poetry and talk
Jennie hung tight when the times were mean
Hiding her tears with sudden colds, pretending
To blow her nose in flowered little handkerchiefs
Twenty years Jennie carried children in and out
Of her bending body, a hovered look about her
As if curled down in care, watching them go
Long after they turned last to wave goodbye
Sending birthday and holiday cards with salutations
Penned in and blessings added; sometimes fattigmann
Counting grandchildren, writing their names among
The others for whom she cared in the small book
That smells faintly still of popcorn and cardamom
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