Mardi Gras

Bitter coffee makes me think
of my mother’s Folgers—
the ground sticks and leaves blended
with careless beans
in the silver percolator
slurping in the early morning
before the day shift
at the hospital
or after a long night
holding the hands
of someone about to die.
We are all terrified
of that bitter drink.

But I am not afraid to swallow
white wine for the last time
or to give up the rotting cream
and sugar that coats my hungry tongue
at midnight, hours after my last cup of tea.

Tonight I will give up everything
for thousands of drops of water
meant to cleanse the corners of my soul.

Jesus did it—
a simple man of faith
gave his body
to the anointing of water
and the scented oils of redemption.

Why can’t I?

H2O is the formula, after all,
that will clear my mind of attachment
to the up and down of this childish see-saw
Marjorie Dawe—
the night terrors
where I can’t wait
to suffer.

In the dream tonight, alone in my bed,
I spin in no red gown.
Here in sleep I am more than ever
the Mardi Gras Queen
and will soon slumber
in my feathered mask
until the middle of April
or maybe for the rest of my life.

Today, on Fat Tuesday,
I can’t resist taking out
all my yard sale garbage,
displaying it carefully
in hope that someone will buy it—
cart away the kitch—
so I won’t have to burn it tomorrow
to make the ash I must smudge
on my face—
mark my memory
wtth the sign that reads
“Nothing lasts.”

I’ll hold my palms up
for the host tomorrow morning,
my fingers laced and prayerful,
expecting miracles
and finding only dust
on my lips
as I leave my words
and my sins
to rest.