for Ray

 

Leaves of the towering sea grape,
some larger than my palm,
thicker than spreading aloe,
obscure the paved entrance
which faces west.
Long slinky fingers
of a New Zealand spruce
mimic lush banana clusters
near the door of the cottage,
painted as pink as the hibiscus,
tall, with saucer-sized blooms.
Inside two lovers wait.

There they wait for daylight
where the unabashed sun, eager
to strip off her wide skirt,
slides up and brightens
the whole of this endless bolt
of wavy blue-green corduroy,
seamed with dolphins
and a few Right Whales
rickracking a path
back to Nova Scotia,
his last glimpse
of their annual migration.

They wait for the gritty night
holding hands on the sand.
Stargazers, they announce
celestial names as familiar
as his fistful of  pills and morphine,
a dark litany for the moon, rising
now more gracefully than the sun.
(Who knows where the pelicans go,
no eyelids against sun or stars?)
They wait for that final light,
As warm and bright as a morning kiss,
as enticing as a slice of the silken moon.

 

 

 

Kitchen Psalter

 

 

I ache to Celtic sounds,
when I bake a Fruity Flan,
or Pear Mincemeat Pie,

but I twang to Hank Williams
at my sister's house cutting
okra or scraping corn.

No music at the other's
so we muddy the stillness
with our discursion of kin,

who's died, the new baby's
name and what a crying shame
we don't harmonize more often,

fried apple pies or sweet potato,
Mama's winter pies
I'm reminded of all summer.

A pie in my oven, Mutsu apple,
bubbles with a dusting of nutmeg,
her very thumbprint—

nutmeg, nutmeg—worry
the dough. Its name evokes
her hands, the twin of mine.

I crush new sage, the herb
she grew and dried for seasoning
pork sausage. I inhale its essence,

hungry for hymns, craving
"Come Ye Sinners" as she
baked and hummed. Amen.