March 05, 2024
Poem by Melanie Huber
An Invocation at the WindowBefore it cools off, before the scent flows around the house
into the yard through the long shade of the vacant lilac bushes,
out into the neighborhood tickling the nose of the neighbor’s
yappy dachshund, calling you to supper like no bell ever could,
consider this,
every recipe begins the same.
But this is not
the 47 blackbirds baked in the pie song, is not the song
you’ve been humming in the shower.
So, don’t sing. Don’t sing at all when the pie is done, when she places
it there, in the window, what would you call the creature,
Woman: (wife, mother, whore) embodiment of Eve, of Mary,
Kali Ma, Diana, Eris, Gaia, Sophia of the white feather,
do you still require the submissions, the sacrifices
of blood? What of the flesh?
The skin is thinnest around the wrist, if only—
but it does no good to think of it. My daughter is sick
she has a fever. She will not eat. Just make the children
well. Oh Mother, what recipe will make them well?
Originally published in Fjords Volume 1, Issue 1