Beyond and above –
no fear.
I crumbled.
The darkness invited the light.
Tender and trembling.
Uncertain and fading.
Surrounded by hideous giants…
A moment.
A sigh.
Departing from previous lives.
Defrosting
and pouring
over a bottomless well.
Awaiting.
And breathing.
Involved with no will.
Too late
or too early,
but never on time.
Suspicious.
Attracted.
Stuck to the ground.
Withholding one hand,
pulled by the other.
Survive or surrender –
above and beyond.
It goes without saying
that a newly married American
accompanying her husband
to Naples on business
wants to avoid
the stares
of handsome Italian men
and thereby
the appearance of impropriety
while sipping espresso
at a café outside the hotel.
Instead, she looks at a magazine,
perhaps Vogue.
Of course, out of a sense of decorum,
she refrains from wearing 3D spectacles
while gazing at layouts of seminudes
lest a half-starved model
escapes the pages
and takes off down the street
in search of a slice of pizza (or lemon gelato.)
Later that afternoon
fresh from a little nap,
the lady goes in search
of the city’s artistic treasures.
she pulls a purple scarf
from her purse
and covers her sleeveless top
before entering San Severo Chapel
where she intends to view such sculptures
as Queirolo’s Release from Deception.
She passes by Jesus Under a Shroud
almost missing the illusion
of a sheer, frail gossamer
draped about the body
of the Christ.
There can be no mistaking though
the other veiled creation,
a transparent-marble masterpiece
whose modest figure
Corradini deceptively displays
beneath a thin, fine gauze
causing the lady,
out of decorum,
to blush.
Just then the sound of someone singing
lures the visitor from the church
in time to find
no one at all
standing in the courtyard.
From whence came the Siren song
now suddenly silent?
She looks for a clue
but finding none
cannot be sure
she heard anyone at all.
My mother’s own mother
and many another
going back to Toulouse
have slaughtered to the goose
the fowl and the pig
to make a stew twenty quarts big.
I stand by the oven trying to peak
at what’s taken all day but seemed like a week.
Then I open the door and what should appear
but a garlic herb crust quite golden and dear.
Though it may seem a bit dumb,
I poke under the crumb,
but instead of finding a fatty feast
I discover a dish fit for neither woman nor beast.
The white tarbais beans are not on my side
but poke all about quite shriveled and dried.
The bouquet garni has crumbled.
My hopes have now tumbled.
The duck is amock.
I’ve run out of luck.
Oh my. Oh my.
Hello and goodbye.
Ave atque vale,
cassoulet.
Lara Dolphin is a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in such publications as “Word Catalyst Magazine,” ”River Poets Journal,” “The Foliate Oak Literary Journal” and ”Calliope.”
The chocolate-covered calendar read August
yet the citrus pork bellies lounged
casually on Christmas china waiting
for their escorts to the table, pigeon peas
freshly picked and still boiling
in a pot on the iron stove
the iron as black as night
the coals singing below
while nearby they lay
the potatoes quiet and still
meticulously scrubbed
carefully dried and seasoned
now asleep in a glass bowl
the red Idaho’s peeled
and poached in white wine
as the blind man sniffed the air
surrendering to the smells, succulent smells
pungent like cloves or tar;
the aromas escaped from the kitchen
entered the dining room, then hovered
like an eagle over the table
right above the midget squirming in his chair
his eyes fixed on the Christmas tree, an old wood pole
with branches made of toilet bowl scrubbers
their green bushy heads as prickly as pine needles
their arms draped in Christmas lights
trembling, shimmering, blinking rhythmically
to the music seeping into the midget’s head
the sound escaping from him, an iPod perhaps
as he sat on a high chair, his legs swinging
his mouth chewing on chocolate
his hands creating hills in front of him
hills of chocolate raisins
hills of M & M’s
hills he will hide in
when the pigeon peas appear.
