|
|
72 - Feast Days |
Feast Days
My grandmother Eliza May never
cooked on Sunday
It's my Puritan heritage she said
as I watched her
Put to rest Saturday's chicken for
Sunday resurrection.
She shook Christmas coals to ashes
in the fireplace grate.
No fiery flames of giving or getting
rested on her head,
Prepared for the worst she expected
no better.
Abundance of law and paucity of grace
force me to seek feast days,
Heap litanies and creeds into bowls
pour them from pitchers.
The branches on the family tree
long for nourishment.
I roll noodle dough parchment thin
on an old oak table,
Whistle bawdy songs to hide the words
dance an Irish jig,
Throw apple peels and salt over
my left shoulder,
Yodel danka, merci, gracias, amen
to a polka tune,
Genuflect, kneel, lift my arms
chant Jubilate Deo,
Collect mint leaves and bitter herbs to
serve with spring lamb.
I gather in our generations of nations
to joy with us
Reconciled, we at table and they at rest
are fed and forgiven.
Come, grandmother, join us
everything was prepared yesterday.
Patricia Flower Vermillion, a prize-winning
writer, has published poetry in The Writer, Orphic Lute, and Virginia
Country.