Autumn Noelle Hall

Amish Ladyfinger*

A guaranteed two-minute meditation—the blue heat licking around the hopper's edge, the smooth wooden knob rotating in my hand, the maracas-rhythm of steam-swelled kernels tumbling over the turnstile.

the popcorn popper
dad gave to me, hand cranked
like a music box,
filling with the tinny sound
of an old-time talkie

Two decades worth of cabinet dents and oily patina does not dull the pure pleasure of old-school corn popping—or that movie-house smell which brings even the dog running.

calling dad crazy
for his corny popper gift
mom’s idea:
another dress in a size
she’d prefer I wear

Amazing, what fans the flames. How memory’s fire over-blows anger’s smallest kernel. The spite with which we eat to fill the holes gnawed in us.

blowing the lid off
the firework finale
pop-pop-pops
of tiny corn bombs
bursting in air