Our Poetica

Could be an arm
that pulls you into
the Chicken Dance
while you stand waiting
for the tray of crab puffs.
Or a voice that wrestles you
to song in the stained
glass chapel of a distant faith.
Maybe a gigantic mother
who has not washed
her hands and kisses
you on the lips.
La Cosa Nostra *
moves like a family
up and down a staircase
in a poorly lit house
where we have all lived
for thousands of years.

* This thing of ours.

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