Ingrid Bruck is wild flower gardener and a poet inspired by nature. She lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania. This site shocases selected works by her.

Milk Crate, 1955 & Swept Away - Published by: Rat’s Ass Review: Summer 2018 Issue

 

 

 

MILK CRATE, 1955

 

Glass bottles of milk came in wooden crates, sectioned with metal dividers, delivered daily on the back cellar steps. The milkman dropped off two crates, took away empties. Our family of eleven drank lots of milk with sandwiches. Dad ate a sandwich but took his with tea and a dollop of cream skimmed off a quart bottle. That year jets kept breaking the sound barrier, a sonic boom cracked our picture window. A screw fell out of the kitchen table, the leg fell off. Dad avoided manual labor, I never saw him use a screwdriver. He played cello with soft clean hands and long elegant fingers. Dad got three milk crates, stacked them under the corner of the table. I worried it was stealing, mom called it borrowing. I wondered if the milkman didn’t say anything because he felt sorry for us which was worse. My little brother knocked the handle off the front door. Temperatures pushed zero. We kept shutting the door, wind kept blowing it open. When dad came home, his solution, more milk crates, but only two sat on the cellar stairs. He piled one on top of the other in front of the door, mom piled blankets on top for more weight. We went to bed with the door closed. Night wind sent a sucker punch that toppled the crates, cold blew inside, the furnace went down for the count. This happened the year Rosa Parks refused to sit at the back of the bus, nine kids in winter coats ate cheerios and milk taking turns huddled in front of an open oven to warm our fingers. No one complained about going to school that day.

 

 

SWEPT AWAY

 

My father played classical records after he sent the children to bed. I sneaked out unnoticed, crawled under the living room couch, listened to vinyl symphonies on high volume. At the crescendo, I saw the stampede of animals from a forest fire. It was the same when the mighty Moldau roared into the ocean or the Mountain King danced in his Hall. Primary colors flared in technicolor after seeing Bambi.

 

after the storm

soft white hands

play the cello

 

 

 

http://ratsassreview.net/?page_id=2862

 

Date Published:  May 3, 2018

 

Last Rites - Published by: Soul-Lit: A Journal of Spiritual Poetry Poems Volume 19: Spring 2018