Hide your spoons.
Mask your gingerbread
as cumin cookies, lemon loaf,
any scent that will put her off
what you offer to the world.
She must never know
how you saved that baby from the sting
of the tiny Mexican scorpion
or how you died on that cold beach
of the lake that shivered your name.
She’s married now, to that warm son
you kept alive on your round breast.
Stay somber, quiet, staunch with grace.
When she turns her gaze away
you know you’ll go dancing high
to tango with the moon’s sharp curve:
your breath rising full and hard
as the broom your clear prayers ride.