Ars Poetica: I smell the...

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

I smell the breeze

I smell 5:00 a.m.

I smell the pricked-up ears

I smell the skritch-sktratch of claws

I smell the jump up into the compost box

I smell the squelch of rotting apples

I smell the furry black-and-whiteness

I smell the soft chirp of your mate

I smell you, skunk.

--Agatha