Peter Solis Nery
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Sometimes, I still think of him—how crabby

He was in mornings, how sour, how dour

How he cannot understand why I have to

Wake up with an upbeat song, a danceable tune

How I like to sing and dance a Broadway melody

As I prepare coffee, and make breakfast of eggs

Bacon and grits, some fruits, and he hates it

That I force him to eat something, but he indulges

Me; takes a bite, and makes a nauseous face

He just couldn’t have another bite, he’ll take

A granola later, he would say, if he gets hungry

My husband doesn’t like breakfast, not even

At lunchtime; his perfect meal is clear liquid diet—

Wine, Chardonnay, if you please, just before 5 pm

At breakfast, I can only think of him.

-petersolisnery, may 19th



A hair donor, I grow my jet-black hair

To make wigs for children with cancer

I’m proud of it, and my husband loved my hair

My heart, and well, he also said he adored me

Apparently, my hair loved my husband, too

The night my husband died, my hair

Remembered Shah Jahan of India’s Mughal

Empire, whose hair quickly turned white

After wife Mumtaz Mahal died in his arms