wicked alice| winter 2009

Rose Maria Woodson


It is a plum of a moment.
Sweet.  Dark.  Dense.
Imagine the interior.
Black coffee, no,
green tea dusk,
as self wraps around self,
a carousel cajoling silence
from a horn-honking, door-slamming world.
There might be silk inside,
maybe velvet, for this special stillness
leading to the body
giving way, giving up, breaking,
like last supper bread,
breathing deeply,
But.  The thing not wing.
The wrap around porch
with the peeling paint
that holds the whole
family in the palm of its hand
in the lava light of a July Saturday.
The singleminded vine
that tethers wild, red grapes, keeps them
from wasting away underfoot,
unnoticed...this unsung
that holds the other dear,
caresses another's dream
seamlessly through its own skin
until that dream  sails in the veins,  unstoppable,
sweet, dark, dense...
this boldness is
the plum of a moment.