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.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
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
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
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.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
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.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
"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
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
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