Know

Don't know the proper name
for what I'm doing to the food
I'm cooking in the kitchen but I
think it's something vaguely French
because there's butter in the pan.
Don't know the singer or the band
that's playing on the radio there
in the background or the year they
had to get a different drummer
but the beat is solid, and the bass is grand.
Don't know a verse or passage
that could perfectly, succinctly say why faith
that's real cannot be shaken by the news or views
that disagree with me but then again, a God
so easily explained would not be worth the worship.
Don't know or understand how I can be
the age I am with all my history and struggles,
and the present complications of my life and yet
I cling to hope and joy and love as stubbornly
as any fact I've clearly seen in black and white,
or stitched into a picture for the wall.
The food is tasty even still, très bon.
I'm dancing at the sink, my hips in rhythm
with my feet, convinced,
committed to a future I can't see but know
it faintly smells of butter and of spice
and plays the soundtrack of my life.

The only other thing I know is that I
have to listen. And I have to breathe.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Four Women (Or Just One)

When Wendy Dwyer, my writer's group facilitator,
said to write about our passions for
our upcoming I wasn't thinking
of knees. Who would? But then I did.

The woman's knees are calloused,
crouched beside him nailing shingles,
finishing the house she wants to
be a home. Hard work,
she's more than willing,
able, too to see it through, believing he will also
work to see their dreams come true.
She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
marriage. She's a princess, help-mate, lover,
hopeful that the best is yet to come,
that happy as she is, there will be more.
(Note to herself to pick up lotion from the store.)

The woman's knees are just a little calloused,
crawling on the floor while
playing with the four-year-old,
the two-year-old, her pregnant belly
not a hindrance, and, indeed, she makes
a better elephant that way. Giggles
and guffaws collect and fill the room until,
exhausted, they collapse inside each other's
warm embrace. She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
family and she is queen of runny noses,
diapers, proper meals, and naps.
(A little baby oil, perhaps? That rough place
might just snag her hose. She grins. As if
she'll soon be wearing those.)

The woman's knees are pink and calloused,
cultivating reverence for her God, a nod
to works when grace is what she's sure
is all that's keeping her from falling clean
apart. It's hard, at times, this life he's handed her
to live, but then again, he gives the
strength and patience to do just that, while
molding her into someone who's soft and pliable, but
fierce as well, not far beneath the surface.
She is called to something greater
than herself, her holy quest a passion that is
simple and profound: to be the daughter of the king
of kings, his servant, and his friend.
(No pride in prayer, for that would be a sin,
and anyway she mostly cries, and trusts he
knows the whys.)

The woman's knees are slightly calloused,
coupled over him, entwined, sublimely
moving to the rhythm of their breaths,
bodacious breasts pressed there against
his skin. A lifetime being loved by
someone who will let her love him back
won't be enough, but she is grateful for
the years she has to be his woman and his
confidante, the hands he holds while walking
on the street, discreetly finding other ways
to touch her, never wanting her to be out
of sight for long. Belonging to an Us,
a something greater than herself, the passion
is not hers alone. And later, when she's
resting quietly, her knees will be anointed
both with lotion and with kisses. Missing nothing
he has noticed the faint roughness,
reveling in all it represents, twin tributes to
her passions throughout life.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016