Woman In Black Colors

She cooks fish and rice, her unfolded hips pushing all into place. Oils, and aromas, train buds to lap at shadows. The marl of her hands turns bowls of smoke into lemon and butter. I won’t get to eat the spiced Mackerel, but I imagine my scaly head laid in a tabby cat’s saucer. I dream of small-boned piquant desires, the lick of her fingers, the coral curl of her tongue as If she were a cat and I a fish in a dish. She wears dark clothes, a peasant garb, black skirts below her knees, a lace shawl when she goes to church. She is Greek, a Turk an Albanian. She is an Etruscan vineyard for orphans. A mother to a lover. Her gourd is full and spilling. In her hair black horses leap, a few stout gray mares amidst the mane. Tides turn and swirl through turtle-shell combs. She’s not a disciple of pretty. She is earthenware to hold my hungers. These words are just terracotta shards. What she is, is an alcove for halvah. Apart from Holy Days, she works at a grocery store. Where she bakes grape-filled suns, and moon-glazed pastries for those in need of the olive yield of her light.