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.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Food, a Tradition

A food, a tradition:
the family gathers on Christmas Eve Day.
Cut those apples!
Stretch that dough!
If you're careless,
there's a hole.
Patch it up.
Breadcrumbs hot!
raisins, cinnamon, sugar, nuts, a lot.
Melt butter over all,
lift edge of cloth,
and begin to roll.
Strudel, apple strudel
(as in old Vienna).
          --Isadora
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