Spice Rack Late nights a festival vendor dictates his gospel at my spice rack, tent preacher pacing in perfect pitch. He makes a list, recites it under his breath: whorled Sage branch tiered in tulle fluffy skirts, balmy light cloudy vanilla, cinammon the color of summer's skin, smoky paprika curves in roof tiles in tropical sun, rough and tumble red pepper flakes heat and rumble of fast cars and slow hands, the rough cumin sash on ranch hands over campfires. He pauses and pulls a snake barely wiggling from a badger skin bag, a petroglyph stick at the top, throws it in boiling water and we watch the unraveling, the releasing of substance, then skims the surface and mixes the miracle. The snake gives up her secrets and he bottles them with my crushed spices, labels it in beard bone font: "For the cure of all pain." Sisters In a minimal city well versed in matters of rumors and gossip sisters carry fruit baskets on their heads, light on their feet, limber on their hips. Prairie wildflowers lean on the slant to the rise and fall of blue mountain ridges capped with the earth's birth caul. Uneasy roosting on the rituals of the holy, the innermost hidden behind half closed almond shaped eyes. In unison they read the signs in a persimmon's innards, reveal the heart of winter, harsh or mild, sisters know. A sister whispers, "Gather persimmons at dawn when the tree lets go of its first ripened fruits to the awaiting ground." "Saigon cinammon, sweet depth of nutmeg," mumble the sisters. The sacred hidden in the crumbling language of ancient recipes tied with honeyed strings and mourning doves heavy with sadness, touched by a neatly sliced sort of love tender persimmon pudding to devour as the gods. Festive Messaging Pivot I am the bright setting sun and a thousand wings to fly. Stars dip by me in quick salute, march in flares and glow around the world. My spirit quickens in a child's hand, I am flight, speed, and strawberry hearts. I am love, a Valentine, a rose, skipping with high knees in vast fields outside the lines. I am red, a melted planet forgotten on the dashboard in summer's technicolor, a festive messaging pivot, apples on the paradise tree, early Christmas morning Kool Aid pitcher cherry smile. I am Red, Red Crayon.
Anna Eusthacia Donovan is originally from Nicaragua, Central America. She is a psychologist and educator dedicated to university students’ success in visual arts and design. She has published in Ponder Savant, The Quiver Review, Melbourne Culture Corner, The Dillydoun Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Litterateur Rw, The Raven Review, Impspired, Global Poetry, Spillwords, Mad Swirl, and Open Skies Quarterly volume 3. She wants to “start where language ends.”
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)