Through the Thistles

Day 13: Lilac Posset

I only make lilac posset
for my worst enemies.
Because when they scoop a spoonful
into their ugly mouths, a ballad
of honey and lemon will play.
But there will be a third instrument
whose tone they will not be able to place,
and they'll spend eternity wondering
at the unknown taste of lilac.

But even if I deign to tell them
that they are eating the essence of flowers,
they will not know the joy of creation,
of cutting armloads of fresh lilac clusters,
of plucking the flowers and bathing them,
the joys of little bugs and cocoons
hiding in the purple, of the kitchen
drenched in the scent of spring.
They will not know the herbal witchery,
the instinct, the blood feeling
of fresh flowers submerged
in rich and glossy heavy cream
left in the cold to infuse.

They do not know the dessert they eat
took two nights and three days.
They do not know the lilacs were picked at dusk
during a waxing gibbous moon,
that the honey was local, the lemon bright as butter.

They do not know that as I poured it
into my grandmother's ramekins
I sang an old song I couldn't remember.

They do not know
that as I made the posset
I, slow as honey, sharp as lemon,
began to love them.

Day 14

Open Windows in the Winter

the hushrush of cars and their headlights
sending shadows sliding across the room
the edges of things become sharper
the air lays against my skin like cool silk
in a coffin newly opened once more
nevermind the lingering smoke
nevermind the breath like fog
nevermind

Day 15: Champion Grasshopper Catcher

If you have any questions or doubts, it was me.
I was the champion grasshopper catcher
and I was five years old. I guess I peaked early.
The careful sweep of the leg I still remember:
brushing my sole across grass and dandelions,
watching those buttery spots to avoid bees
and other stinging types. I'd never been stung
and didn't intend to be. At the bending
of grass, things would go flying into the August blue:
aphideaters and ladybugs, damselflies and sweat bees.
Sometimes a leafhopper or katydid would do,
and in desperate times crickets sustained me--
but my quarry was the grasshopper, long and green,
desperate to escape and angry that I caught it.
Its powerful legs juttered and snapped between
my hands, now stained with its dull orange vomit.
Now, grown too tall, they leap away too fast
for me to stalk and pounce like when I was five.
All washed-up, living on old glory, unable to catch
the most sluggish of grasshoppers, either dead or alive.

Day 16: Missing Fred

Poor Fred the cat is lost and can't be found.
We've searched for orange tabbies high and low.
His claws are sharp, his belly is so round.
We call his name but still he will not show.

I love his angry face, his switching tail
delights me. Fred is always looking for
some tasty food and chasing after mail-
men. Life without him is only a bore.

Our Fred was catnapped from the street outside
the barbershop by shirtless men who took
him without shame. When we found out we cried
and promised righteous vengeance. Our fists shook.

When he returns, all shall be right once more:
I'll hear his meow, listen to him purr.

Day 17: The Clown, Reviled

"Whatever the order of beings, the clown
was roped off from our gods and families."
- "The Clown" by Sandra McPherson

Is it any wonder you are kept behind bars
you strange pale creature awhirl
in lights or colors or silks
the plates crash the wheel pops
horrific grotesque angelic a blue
spotlight into which you tumble
tragic masks or unfeeling grins
feel their eyes their laughter pity revulsion
scrape off your skin every night
peeled washed down the drain
with a shot of liquor
circles in circles stomach
twists bile rises with
the stench of stale hot dogs
at dawn