Gumbo
Verity is from the roux, made from flour, spices and ingredients
burned into a color dark as me, no other color which holds truth
Verity is in sausages, which hogs sacrificed themselves, which
artful cajuns and black people made, with spices that sing of the bayou
Verity is from the chicken, I once chased around in my grandmother's yard
which brings the flavor of the south, into a joyful evanescence
Verity is from the oysters, that can hold the pearls of dreams
I open one and zydeco songs cry out to me
Verity is from the okra, green and slimy, yet hold worlds
of flavor, a good cook/magician can conjure out
Verity lies in the shrimps, the jewels of the sea
that nets caught, filled to bursting, as fisherman thanked god for mana
Verity lies in the crabs, my birth sign and spirit animal
always hungry, always hunting, always seeking more
Verity lies in Tony Chachere's seasonings, and Tobasco, which
run thick and red as my own blood, running true
Let this be my doxology, my praise song, I dip my
French bread into, dear heavenly father, give me food of life
your mercy and your love I praise
That I may continue to know the joy of you
all my life long days . . .
The Soprano Warms Up
and the world becomes an inferno
and all of Italy comes out of her mouth
like Maria Callas, her beauty is captured
in a moment
yet, she becomes infinity
her c note like Renee Fleming
soothes like a cold compress
across the brow
she sings and the world stops
all lace and storms and dreams and
daylight, comes out of her mouth
Caro Mio Bein . . .
and a nation stops raging and notices
how a woman stands alone on stage
fragile as a flower
but holds in her voice, the power of armies . . .
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