GRACE CAVALIERI

Dates

The silver from my mother's mirror 
gleams its stories
toward a light which drops and never breaks. 
It says to tell the truth and 

permanently shining, brings forth 
an original day bright as this one 
where children and other small creatures 
played without threat

but the child's story is never without fear – is it – 
and seems to be made of remainders which either 
want for love or some relief from it. 

In the third grade the pyramids were presented to us
by Miss O'Malley
so kind that she would –
in honor of learning – 
give us the key to Egypt
if she could. 
Who would like to bring dates for all to taste?
Who can do this on the lunch hour? She asked,
Naturally I
- who could not imagine how -
said I would - 
and, like a child with enough money to spend, ran 
home with only one hour, one hour to ease
my dear mother who probably had
little money in the house, yet who bravely asked 
“Shouldn't you buy two packages for the class”
I said No.
Love and fear divided in my mind between
an ocean of children
and my mother's troubled face,
“One package is all I need” I lied, 
“Someone else will bring the rest”
(Children spend so much time persuading – 
no wonder no one believes them).
Eight dates for twenty children
which would taste so sweet -
Miss O'Malley, always kind, cut the tiny squares
and I kept interrupting, hoping they
wouldn't notice. After all
there wasn't water in the land of pyramids ... was
there … and
not too many trees
probably hungry people and small rations there as 
well. 

That day every one of us was a reflection of the other-
The children  who ate their portions,
the mother at home worrying about her daughter's gift
the child thinking about her mother's face
and Miss O'Malley who, kind and earnest, 
taught us all about a hardy people in an arid land 
who gave what they had and could give nothing more.

copyright 2003 GRACE CAVALIERI

TAMMY VITALE

Convert

Once her prayers beat the sky
with the fear of a caged bird
cold beads slipping through fingers
like memories. She has forgotten
why the woman in blue
is forever stepping on the snake.

Instead she thinks of the green serpents
seen unexpectedly the year she thought
of drowning, how water enfolds and covers

but the serpents sang to her
of the secrets of dry grass
the diligence of trees
and the warmth of small feathered things
with racing hearts
so she learned to love the land.

Now
she places sweet milk
in the corners of her yellow kitchen
just in case
the serpents come ashore
makes nests of shredded paper
for broken birds with wounded wings
and skitters glass beads
one by one
across the worn and shiny floor
while she holds her prayers
in the palm of her hand.

copyright TAMMY VITALE