Lynne Potts

Today I Put Up Dill Pickles

Say a dill pickle brings your

mother back

twelve Mason jars on a sill

wanting to stay sealed

you can’t tell a vinegar mother

about it

two mourning doves

setting the hour rose-slate gray


like numb glass in sun

mother wafting in the bottom

with the name of vinegar

turn an hourglass over

it won’t take you back to that time

scent of vinegar and dill

vague figment of mother

First published in Manhattan Review