Baking Spritz to Honor my GrandmotherAs I cut the cold,
wet butter, it squishes,
like a long-forgotten kiss
I never said.
to clasp cold hands
between cold hands.
Now my hands grasp
for the wisp of her…
Just out of reach.
I smell the vanilla
in her as I knead.
My spritz are never as good as…
Will my granddaughter grasp
for the wisp of me
with buttery hands?
Made Up WomanPluck away all my hairs so I may be well defined
by the arch in my brows.
Virginal, smooth lips, pitch forward, untainted
by a tangle wood tumbleweed undulating between my thighs.
Long, glossy, pink legs, freshly vanished
gently slope into golden sandals.
No black beauties rising, proud and tall
on my chinny- chin- chin.
No growths sprout free like wild grass, under my t-shirt sleeves.
Make me moist and pink in all the right places.
Curl me, smooth me, and butter me up
to be a sun-kissed geisha for the world.
Gaze on me, am I not beautiful?
I am a woman made up.
The Jazz SingerA bittersweet note rings unrequited.
Blues melody afloat. Broken
lines: laments hang heavy.
Accusing counterpoints linger
The Farmer’s WifeWidowed at age 29,
she resolved not
to embrace her mother’s
baked bread and her father’s patch
of earth but stayed
in her hollow on the edge
of her father-in-law’s pig farm.
to be a wife without.
TwisterHowls of dogs and men suffocating
from all the air. The gyrating ground whirls
e r ed:
dishes shiver in their shelves,
the tilting wooden frame reels
It’s all over
with a thundering shudder.
A dry wisp escapes
unscathed from the capricious eye?
Copyright © 2014 Carolyn D. Elias
Carolyn D. Elias' work has appeared in Sassafras Literary Magazine, East Jasmine Review, and online at Apeiron Review, and www.beakfulblogspot. Read more about her at www.carolyndeliasauthor.squarespace.com, or follow her on twitter @CarolynDElias.