Chocolate Cake (चो)

2 cups unbleached white flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. baking powder
3/4 cup unsweetened chocolate cocoa
2 cups sugar
1 cup oil
1 cup hot coffee
1 cup milk
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla

Sift together dry ingredients. Add oil, coffee, and milk. Mix 2 minutes on medium with mixer. Add eggs and vanilla. Beat 2 more minutes.

Pour into greased and floured pan. Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean. Cool 15 minutes before removing from pan.

White Frosting

1 cup milk
5 Tbsp. flour
1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup shortning
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. vanilla.

Combine milk and flour in saucepan. Cook until thick. Cover and cool in refrigerator.. In mixing bowl, mix butter, shortening, vanilla, sugar until creamy. Add chilled mixture. Beat for 10 minutes. Frost cooled cake.

The Dancer Waking

The dancer in me
was happy this morning
pulling on my costume—
the one that flashes and sparkles
the morning’s newest light on the surface
of Silver Lake or possibly the Sugar River,
flowing over pebbles made smooth,
tumbling past rocks and stones
stacked by ice and rushing snow melt,
cast off by the accumulation of thunderstorm
electric with summer, mellowed on golden days
in October and copper November.

My heart is most pleased in this body
when I honor movement
of skirts swirling around my ankles,
old settlers in bonnets
tending to the earth on the prairie,
cutting each step with the swish of fabric
chosen not just for the utility of the cloth,
but for the delicate flowers
and comfort each brush against strong legs might bring—
in work and in celebration
of promenades holding the head high
and circling, smiling with partners
who look adoringly
into the face.

Jaguar, Mother of the West,
queen of all that protects me,
let me know love beyond birth and death,
sink your teeth into the throat of these enemies
of fear and doubt.
Let me see clearly and smell the earth as she wakes
under the pads of my lover’s feet.
Let us embrace and move as if one body—
fibers of light connecting sinew and bone
and the flesh, warm with that white rose of pure understanding—
awake every holy junction in our core
with your sweet mother breath.
Wrap a shawl around my shoulders
and I will bow my head in this fresh May morning
and I will be grateful for your abundant loving kindness
in every blessed step forward

Bone Poem

Stammer over the little things,
like the towel on the bathroom floor
or the seat up, the rim covered with dried drops
of urine and fine hairs
and you will be trapped--
like listening to the same question asked
three times by the betrayal
of eyebrows raised
in disbelief and doubt--
Your teeth clench, vice-like, and you,
you will know something about yourself.

Your life is a premonition making history
before the end of the final battle,
the shot over the bow,
a legacy of losses
you never intended to leave out to dry
in the too hot sun.

This is the bone poem—
the white, flaking femur
and fine finger bones unearthed
by a clever and hungry dog.
There is no rebirth here,
Only naked truth
where forgiveness is a far off fire,
a Pentecost of the spirit
waiting for another day
to come clean.

At 43, I’ve seen my share of death up close.
In my womb and at my breast—
even my children have been taken
from the power of my Mother arms,
unable to hold them,
to love them into long life.

I have cast off my own death
by looking her straight in the face
and managed not to look away,
unashamed of what I witnessed,
unafraid of that bloody place,
that red, pulsing ball
of light.

I am a woman who sees things with my bones—
from the place in my marrow
where real life grows—
bleeds onto this white page
and the bones of my wisdom
hold up words that don’t stutter
or struggle to find their breath—
This is the place where they hold firm,
the foundation of everything
that really matters.

Tempting Destruction

What will it take to finally move me
out of this place of worst fear,
drowning in my own precious Piscean waters,
flailing about for the shores of an uninhabited island
where I can hear myself think,
make a plan,
scan the horizon for a sail
or a white messenger bird
carrying hope to the hands of a stranger?

The tides carry me now exhausted, out to sea
to the edges of twilight
while I wait to regain my strength
and to let my pain escape one drop at a time
crystallizing, not unlike the Desert Rose,
with this waiting
into some solid thing I can roll
between my fingers and examine
like lace or folds in the memories of a miniature mind
where one can find the exact place
where happiness once lived along with sorrow
and they wrapped themselves together,
lovingly smoothing the edges—
the liquid source of comfort not forgotten.

A tiny mirror
on the pocked face of this self-made stone
catches the eye,
invites me to look inside for my truth.

I resist the urge to break the core open too soon.
Patience and attention,
like that of a hopeful farmer in his spring fields,
gives me the sense to wait for rain
and adjust the flood gates
not until at last I can see nothing else
will hold the power within
without tempting
destruction.

Eulogy on the Last Day

It is not the deer I pass nightly
on my dark way home from town
or the pink possum
or a quick brown fox.
Not the toad hopping
across my blackened path,
nor skittering mouse or mole
blinded by headlights
that was my victim.

Bright red-breasted boy,
you stood in my way,
in full sun this morning,
and I waited for you
to take the customary
last minute flight out from under
my speeding wheels,

but you did not.

Instead you stood Samurai
looking me full in the face
and let me take you
unafraid from this day
and all the rest of the days,

feathers flying away from you,
an offering to the heavens
on your wake.

The Size of a Fist

Pull the fingers
tightly into your palm
and form a boney fist
and you will see
the size and shape
of your heart
before your eyes.

Place this gathered hand
over your left breast,
simple and compact,
sturdy and ready to fight.
Throw a punch into the chest--
into of a lifetime of longing.

What gifts this small package carries
into the body each time she enters the door
blinded by human vision,
forgetting her native language,
the tough fibers
pounding the spirit
blood red—
a purple bruise
unrecognizable to her family
of lovers.

The sound is the distant thunder
of the rising storm.
The heat burns
at a constant temperature,
perfect for baking
and the gathering of delicate
yeasty flowers.
The power of endurance
is that of an African runner
making his barefooted way
across the desert.

But what treasure do we find there
balled into the corner of the ribs,
rocked by the breath,
day after long day?
What does this basket of a body
carry to the grave,
time after time daring to trust
the offering, once opened
is not lost
or empty, robbed by some unknown thief
in the dark of night,
but instead will be over flowing
with sweet honey
and jewels to be fitted
into the royal crown
of the priestess at the feast of infinity?

Here each mouth filled
with laughter—
each belly full of sweetness
and enough light
to burst open
all wisdom
and absolute beauty.

Arguing With Angels

Even as the sun opens the sky
to the brightest April blue
and brings light and warmth
to my winter weary bones,
I am arguing with angels
about happiness.

There are limits to everything it seems—
boundaries I never knew existed
in order to keep control
on laughter as it burns the ribs
and stretches each of a thousand muscles
of a face
or controlling hunger for garlic and oil
slathered over Turkish dumplings
with yogurt to smooth the edges of bitterness
and ancient rituals involving grapes and walnuts,
the earth herself added to the syrup at the end of cooking
for sweetness.

The creatures from heaven warn me
not to move too close to the edge of this love,
to stay back under cover
where I can protect myself,
hide from the truth that buzzes
like a mouth full of angry bees.

Ignore the pull of a wide-open heart
lest you drown in the rapid current
roaring on these banks like a locomotive
racing across the prairie in winter, no crossings
to stop the speeding iron force at midnight
under a crescent moon
and millions of burning stars.

Even with the counsel of these winged ones
I cannot help but tempt this fate.
Their fear will not dissuade me
from walking across the invisible lines
drawn as protective charms
against the unbearable burden
of too much love.


Even if I must drain every drop of blood from my veins
and fill these vessels with emptiness,
I will climb over this mystic mountain
of everything forbidden
to gaze into the face of God.