Ways with Grapes

Ways with Grapes / by Laura M Kaminski

The grapes are growing, blushing
darker on the vine, rich juice
and dusky husk combined, as if
a heaven made of honey rained,
and these are dew.  To those
who compose music, they are wine,
fermented, aged, notes and tones
and characters, the compositions
then distilled, refined into a brandy,
set aflame.

Poems are made from these same grapes,
these same fine drops of nectar —
left in sunlight, these droplets
evaporate and dry. Waiting and sunlight
make a poem, a song that can
be held between the fingers,
arias and cantatas dried
to lunch-box- and pocket-size,
a symphony in a handful,
come-as-you-are, take-along heaven
common raisin.




Catechism / by Laura M Kaminski

When still a small and prissy girl,
more prone
to matching bows and shoes
than digging inquisitive
holes in the mud,
it seemed clear that earthworms
fell from the clouds
with the rainwater.

I assumed those squirming
pink and brown segments were bits
of angels’ intestines,
angels who’d met with mishaps,
buffeted to pieces
by the wind
or sliced by lightning.

Careful not to get anything
sacred on my socks, I tiptoed
through the debris,
sanctifying my squeamishness
with conviction.