She Dances With Big Hat

Something something something

She don’t write no more
it gone
out the window like a
something something something
She don’t sing no more
one ear tone deaf
tonsils out the other
tra la tra loo tra lech
She don’t bleed no more
dripping four weeks
forecast calls
for two days more
She don’t talk no more
hoarse as a beaten joke
tongue on strike since the thing
with the tonsils
She don’t don’t no more
no where to go
map ends here at the page border
pleasantly blank

Baking

Hands press down
passing downward
with a gentle strength
like sowing paper
into books
that smell a little like nature,
a little like man,
and a little reluctant to be written upon.

Dough rises
unperturbed by
the cacophony
and her quick movements
like a bird’s
efficiently purposeful,
anticipating,
and living brightly colored in the south this winter.

The clock chimes
wanting to be
a player in the
diorama that
unfolds in
the kitchen of our family
as we gather to
memorialize our love in the most ancient custom.

Sugar blessed,
made pecan proud,
honored as coffee,
cinnamon true,
and surely
vegetable venerated:
all that we are comes
to the table, is acknowledged, and is passed around.