Mary - Luke 1
The tannur burnished with slaps
of flatbread. Ruptured chimney of clay,
wearing away in combustion;
eucalyptus crackling against oak.
The crater billows with
smoke, an impassioned
dialogue within, blackened
by what’s been spoken. Most days
are just broken cucumbers, slices of
apricot. Number what stays the same
tomorrow, same grind stone
to crack bitter legumes, to roll
the rebellious edges of dough with
common little rubs. The beloved
hears her name in flame, in clouds
that nestle between hollows
and thistles. I’ve blistered,
repeating the tasks, obedience
over every little scrap. Wine drips
from pores in the cask. But today
I want to cleave its surface,
spill what’s sweet over figs and leeks,
let my service froth into
full purpose.