Mary - Luke 1
The tannur burnished with slaps of flatbread. Ruptured chimney of clay, wearing away in combustion; eucalyptus crackling against oak. The crater billows with smoke, an impassioned dialogue within, blackened by what’s been spoken. Most days are just broken cucumbers, slices of apricot. Number what stays the same tomorrow, same grind stone to crack bitter legumes, to roll the rebellious edges of dough with common little rubs. The beloved hears her name in flame, in clouds that nestle between hollows and thistles. I’ve blistered, repeating the tasks, obedience over every little scrap. Wine drips from pores in the cask. But today I want to cleave its surface, spill what’s sweet over figs and leeks, let my service froth into full purpose.