there is a ritual for waking

 

there is a ritual for waking

as dreaming traces disappear

like misty steam upon a shower

wall…involving cotton plush

then cloth petal layering

for naked bodyness

there are burnt berry aromatics

poured in a thick white cup

a scratch of knife on toast

news brash of voices, and

the purring of a cat…

then gathering of encumbrances

an instant catch of breath…before

the opening…and closing of

a door

Bonnie Marshall

Art: Richard Diebenkorn

 

in the buttery

his mother calls it the buttery,
their root cellar in the cave…
where raw milk awaits cleavage
of acidic watermilk beneath
ascending cream

son enters…flames a match
to stub candles on a barrel…
along walls are bins of apples
carrots squash potatoes all
arrested…chilled in the dark;
a shiver sweats across his back

he skims sweet milk…thickened
to his mouth…across his tongue
in cool solitary…needs its satin
satisfaction after haying swelter
monotonous with row and row;
straw prickles on his arms…his legs

then…in a summer barn with cows
full uddered warm above his hand
his fingers stroke a rhythm…milking;
and he is drawn to memory of breast

 

Bonnie Marshall

Art by Mary Cassatt