Tuesday Poem: From The Water Series

Snowdrop Soup

is what Luna serves him.

She forages and all she can

find is these, with their little

white heads and greeny secrets.

Months of being cooped up

in their too tiny space,

inundated with snow, after

heavy wet ice, after hailstone

and rain, wind whipping

beneath the floorboards, stilts

rattling a rough tattoo.

There were shriveled carrots

and mildewed beets left,

to throw in with a brackish

draw from the well, her

put-ups all but decimated.

She spies them at her feet,

clusters of early March milk maids,

a first flowering, stoop-shouldered

and shy above the sooty patches of melt.

A gift, she thinks, from the angels,

for ain’t she like Eve almost? Needing

a little swig of the hope, after

losing so much that was good?

Too late she remembers their other name:

death’s flower, so beautiful were they,

once she clipped them, like mermaid’s

hair drifting across the bowl.

He gobbled them fast, and she did too,

so craving of green were they, and then

the cramps and the stomach flips set in,

the two of them dizzy as love sick fools.

Giddy, he says, with spring just round the bend.

Their guts will mend, since at least she

remembered to leave bulb in the ground.

She doesn’t tell him the story. Maybe

next year. Pictures how hard their

empty bellies will shake when they laugh.

Tuesday Poem: From The Water Series

 

Drawing By Sally Rendel

Old Woman’s Aria

What a boon, what a boon, what a boon!

to live in an empty honey crock tucked into

the long brown bones of a hedge.

O bee hieroglyphics!

O nectar and reverie!

O to row out in half a walnut,

to meet this drowned world,

with its blessings of barter and trade,

its mud that spits out stones for ballast

and jars, those glass beatitudes,

that rise up singing out of the muck,

jars, clear and intact, no matter to me

how small they be, or what they held once,

jars I catch the rain in, the best ones

begging to be filled with potables,

to be sealed with caps I make

out of crayons and candle scraps.

O to be washed sweet again by the rain,

to savor the taste of a memory, though

the poor bees, themselves, are gone!