"As much as you want," she'd grin...

Always on the cutting board.
  All wood when wood was wood.
A little cliff in the kitchen;
    A jut in my memory.

Neighborhood drugstore delivered.
    Lime, orange,
  Or some half-gallon such.
A tarnished-but-polished spoon.
            One favored china bowl.
      The near-noon sun through a window.

“As much as you want,” she’d grin.
      Felt it
    In her folds, feathered authenticity.
  Most Sundays after church—
    I’ve found more filling things are rare.

                Needed a footstool then;
                Again and now.
        Usually good
        For two
Bowls back-when—
But, then, I haven’t had sherbet in years.

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