We never said grace before the meal, but always gleefully, if not greedily, did consume with great appreciation. There may have not been much reverence in the eating, but there was love in the preparation, and the sustenance. Wide slabs of noodle laid in tomato sauce, meat and vegetables mortared in troweled ricotta, slabs of fresh mozzarella that would stretch, reminder of the connection between eater and eaten.
This, prepared with love
Cold fall, hot food, eat of it
And thus be sustained
A haibun prompt from Bjorn on dVerse
dVerse, Meeting the Bar: List
As our paths run through the world
Intertwine divine some shine
Twist and turn some dark, some light
Some straight, some wavy
The unwoven fabric of this reality
Is a beautiful tapestry
Warming the lap
There is but one child birth I can speak of
And I cannot speak of it, to you
For it is a forbidden, secret thing
Swaddled in shame
Buried in trauma
records sealed and names erased
This family had nothing to do with it
Any wonder or inquiry
Obliterated by the small allowed honesty
It was an event that didn’t exist.
The key, swallowed by shame
Shame killed by fear
Fear destroyed by guilt
Guilt buried by anger
Anger drowned in complacency.
And yet, here I am
A strange weed grows early
From a small root, and spreads,
Draping it’s tentacles around
Jealously guarded ground
I pull it back, unpealy
To clear space for cabbage heads
Into the soft loam I thrust my hand
Feels so good to be on the land
Beyond makeup, dress and shoes
There is a beauty unencumbered
Beyond hips, chests, or limbs
There is a beauty undimmed
Beyond intention, thoughtfulness, even caring
There is a light so great
Looking into the sun cannot begin to compare
It is not light at all, thus this poem’s failure
There are no words left
Save these, perhaps.
My muse has left.
Mother, now her too.
Their sameness is freakish.
It must be echos.
Looking back on April
It’s no wonder. Little
there of value. April!
So warm, at first.
She’s gone too. Cold