A large bird, wings oily black,
perches on my windowsill,
whispers a message.
Trouble is coming,
coming in a pair.
Four feet wander,
full of despair.
He then flies high
to the boughs of the leafless
elm, lands on a crooked branch,
sharpens his beak, and calls
for his brothers to assemble.
I slam shut the knotted pine shutters,
waltz to the kitchen
singing a song my mother sang
in her own home.
Two cups of
walnuts, six
leaves of bay,
moss bed ‘neath
mushrooms and
cheese turning
gray.
Paw paws picked
green, soaked
ten days in
brine,
top with two
dumplings,
eat with red
wine.
I stoke the flames
in the fireplace.
I will never have a stove –
too dangerous,
too enclosed.
A bottle of merlot is open,
breathing to reach peak flavor.
I gather most of the meal’s ingredients,
simmer them in a crusted cast iron pot
that hangs barely above
the tower of burning logs.
All that is left to make the meal
complete is the dumplings.
I sit at the table, pour wine
into my crystal goblet, thump
my silver fork against the fine
bone china, and wait for my guests.
An hour passes, then two, and even more.
The moon rises against a soot black sky
as I open my third bottle of merlot.
Maybe they got lost. Maybe
the bird lied.
I rise to check on the food,
holding on to the counter
to keep my balance.
The liquid has dried,
and the paw paws are stuck
to the bottom of the pot.
I yell curses, add more brine
to help loosen the dried sludge.
Weaving, I stagger outside to the woodpile,
manage to carry two logs back inside
without tripping over tree roots or rodents,
and open the shutters so the fire can be seen
by my visitors.
Nervous energy sings through my skin,
makes my sinews contract, fingers curl into claws,
and I grab the broom –
begin sweeping, swinging my upper body
like a pendulum as I lean heavily upon
the old stick.
Mid-stroke I hear a timid tap-tap-tap
at the door.
It’s open, come on in.
Two cherub faces framed with golden curls
peek around the door. It opens wide.
Come in my dumplings,
welcome to dinner.
