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Up an Unfamiliar
Trail
I see tiny hairs on the back of my
idea stand up. Wind combs through them
as if pushing curtains back, and I see
various trees and a sly mountain.
The mountain is what I don’t know.
It stands over me, ominous sometimes
in its silent snow, has a trail for goats
to wander up, a ragged trail full of
potholes and a cool, dancing river.
The river runs right through what I
don’t know, invites me in for a dip.
One toe, another, and a shiver goes
up my back. What I don’t know is
getting deep now, and by nightfall I
might be afraid. But still I walk in,
knowing I’ll never see the full
view in this waking world.
Ah, but the water, the buoyancy
when I stop resisting the flow.
The river in what I don’t know
holds me up, prepares me
for the complicated climb.
© Margo LaGattuta
ROLL THE REEL BACKWARDS
and it’s a home movie in Key
Biscayne, Florida. I’m sixteen
and my ripening body dives
into a Ramada Inn pool.
I am fruit and the young man at 7-11
picks me. See me waiting for hours
at the phone booth. See him
never show up for our date.
Roll the reel backwards
and he never calls, never catches
his eye on my black bathing suit.
Water leaps into the air, the pool
spits me, feet first, up
onto the diving board, and I am
dry and moving slowly back,
back before his mouth again my mouth,
before a word allows itself loose.
Roll the reel backwards;
let the word soak up its own
connotations, its own cough;
go all the way back, before thought
or even a frame of picture.
See the word eat its own desire.
Word begins its long
sad journey back, before desire
ripens on the tongue. See the
picture spliced, a jump
cut of light memory erased. See un-
sweetened memory dissolve in its own juice.
Roll the reel backwards;
see the start—a gray flicker, a flower,
a blurred hum of light, and dust’s
random dance against a
6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . .
click click click click click
© Margo LaGattuta
THE WISH BRACELET
The way to love anything is to realize
that it might be lost. -- Fortune Cookie
They say you tie it on your wrist
and wear it every minute,
even in the shower, or in a hurricane,
or in bed with your lover.
Mine is purple, green, and orange
and came from Guatemala.
Mine is the color of joy,
the power of wishes tied in knots.
They say your dreams come true
the day the bracelet falls off.
My arm is heavy with the burden.
I carry the gift of loss around me.
I carry the gift of waiting
for small threads to fray,
for each color to begin bleeding,
for the friction dance on my skin.
To know wild colors now
is all hope in a circle.
Anything beautiful might be lost; I see
everything real keeps moving.
© Margo LaGattuta
MY MOTHER’S SPICES
Cooking in my mother’s kitchen,
now that she’s gone, gives me
an odd feeling. Sprinkling cardamom
and sweet basil into the chili,
I think of when she last used these
to spice up a beef stew. What
was she thinking as she poured
marjoram and Mrs. Dash onto
her lamb chops? I wonder—
and notice how paprika
sticks until I tap it on the edge
of the counter. Nutmeg loosens like
memory and pours out full
and rich. Mother was shy
with spices sometimes, Don’t
use too much! she’d call to me
while I was joyously seasoning
meatloaf with rosemary leaves.
Don’t make it too hot, she’d
remind me as I minced a garlic clove
or cut an onion with tears in my eyes.
She liked to live carefully, thought
I was a hooligan the way I went
wild sometimes with peppercorns.
Even her dying was careful and slow.
My mother wanted to do it right,
and she lay there for weeks
in Charlevoix hospital after her last stroke.
Always take your time, she once told me.
You’ll want to get the seasoning just right.
© Margo LaGattuta
Click on any book title at the top of the page to learn more
about one of Margo's books of poetry.
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