Spaghetti thrown upon the wall—
it doesn’t stick, it slithers, a snake--and dare I gaze
there at this trace of Medusa hair, this gliding golden shifting shape?
I’m frozen in time and space. Stuck. Caught--
until the serpent beckons,
tempting me to taste the fruit—to glean the knowledge
that love apples know, of
summer harvests, red and ripe, of bright green basil, its perfume mingling
with the scent of garlic in the air, and as the steam rises, the spaghetti, now
al dente. Ready, it is ready. I am
ready, aged like cheese--not perfection—but readiness. Ready to
eat, to see, to learn. I love this. Don’t you? Life. Are you ready?
Come, pour the wine.
Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her poetry and short fiction have been published most recently in Anti-Heroin Review, Black Bough Poetry, Nightingale and Sparrow, the Ekphrastic Review, and Fevers of the Mind. Twitter: @merril_mds