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The Gift
by Yolanda Coulaz
A bagel,
a simple bagel,
a strip of rawhide
rolled into a holey mass,
basted, blessed
with some sort of something
short of what would tempt you.
A bagel
stuffed into a corner of a room,
behind a door that never closed.
A bagel never tasted, never chewed.
You put it there,
hidden away for other days,
days that would not come for you.
This brings me to my mother’s things:
silver, china, golden rings.
These things she saved for other days,
days that she would never see.
These things she hid away for me.
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