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.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Poetry should be written the way adultery is committed: 
on the run, on the sly, during the time not accounted for. 
And then, you come home, as if nothing ever happened.  
          --Vera Pavlova, poet
          (Contributed by Lucretia)

Monday, March 11, 2013

What Little Girls Are Made Of


My hands are made of colored glass
and glue and lumps of clay.
My hair of fabric remnants
and white papier maché.

My feet are sawdust, sticks, and grass,
a splash of paint for toes.
My head is full of photographs
and poetry and prose.

My breasts are two maracas,
my tongue a treble clef.
My thighs are made of sourdough
shaped by a drunken chef.

So, dunk me in your water
and form me in your hand.
Whip me smooth like batter
or rough me up with sand.

Bake me in your oven
Shape me with a swirl.
But, remember when you break me
I’m just a little girl.
          --Agatha

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Mountain Lion

Prompt: "What animal are you?"

I wouldn't mind being a mountain lion
female
powerful
glossy
beautifully grey-tawny

my scent so strong
it summons a mate
from another mountain.

Stretched on my high stone ledge
I survey the valley
watch for intruders
choose the object
of dinner to stalk.

Mostly alone
quiet
in the Spring, my cubs gambol around me
I play-snarl, roll them over
rough them against smooth rocks
looking forward to the day they'll leave me.

An eagle swoops overhead
I lift my furry face to the sun
press my eyes closed
against the heat
and purr.

When at long last the hunter
comes with his gun
I'll spring forward to meet him.

              --Agatha