No Cooking Necessary
we make each other
sick and hot and cold
with chill and mad and
it all comes down to these
minutes of repulsion and attraction
being fried in the same saucepan
the recipe says separate ingredients
i'd prefer it raw
i whisper over the sizzle
of grease
Roller Coaster
The rise is always worth the rocky side
--Amy Ray
I. Her body lies
on the cool, hard ground
belly down
she smells the earth
and all its tokens:
a rock, some broken grass
and a little dirt that wishes
it was mud, instead.
The sky opens above her
and seems to moan a quiet burden
only she hears,
sandwiched between
two friends who have no last names, yet
she huddles in closer
for warmth we all say, shaking
knowing
it's for more than that
she takes a swig
from the jug of wine
that's almost empty
and passes it on.
Skyward, she looks
her head tilted in awe
of the canopy above
mysteriously full, the moon
is christened blue tonight
for it is the second one this month
and though it looks no different
than any other moon, she's seen
the swollen arc in the curve
of her sisters bellies
who love nothing
more than life
pulling at their womb.
This is why we came here, she says
as she holds her stomach
in her hands,
why we ride above the rocks
and turns that throw
and thrash our unfastened bodies
to this earth.
Above, where we belong, she says
her arms raised now
toward the sky in a V
like a matriarchy of geese
flying against the wind.
II. My arms fall wingless to my thighs
and I sigh as I think what's happening now is seen
as unusual, as "once in a blue moon"
for in our lexicon we describe things
that are uncommon as rare and strange.
You tell me the blue moon isn't strange at all
but comes from the word belewe in Old English
meaning "to betray."
So I look at you and understand why
the moon is blue
on this night it deceives
its own sky and stars and all the dust
its fullness moves around.
For, like myself, the moon
is not content
unless she is whole.
And I know as we gather ourselves
to leave this place, I feel
a pull in the arch of my steps
as I walk down the hill at a speed
I'm not quite as comfortable with.
So I ask the moon in an absent voice
if its betrayal like my own
for I confess,
I haven't been comfortable for a while.
T Taylor
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Ms Taylor is a recent graduate of Syracuse's Le Moyne College, earning a
Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and Creative Writing. She is the recipient
of the Father John Lahey Award in Writing and the prestigious Newhouse Award
for Poetry.