October 2020
Bio Note: Although I’m a homebody and a hermit, this time of isolation is a bit much. I’ve
used this great pause to write more and to read books again, as well as submit more of my work. My poetry
has appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, and The Nation. I
live in rural central Virginia in the woods, alone, with one difficult cat named Sestina.
Superstition
I always say, Salute! when someone
sneezes, have trained myself not to say,
God bless you, since I’m a non-believer
in anything supernatural. Still, I know I’ve
brought woes upon myself by toppling
too many salt shakers to count, have broken
hand mirrors inside my purse, and petted
that black cat who crossed my path in NYC
in 1961. My mother was foolish to open
umbrellas to dry inside our home, couldn’t
accept rust and mold, sure cause of her misery
and cancer. Or was it malocchio of a neighbor?
I write this wearing my lucky hat, which I
pull down to cover my eyes before I fall
into a blessed sleep. Rabbit, rabbit! I got up
on the right side of the bed with thirteen
things to do. Today’s a good day!
Knock wood. Kina hora!
A Man of Strong Opinions
Harry doesn’t like jazz that’s splashed
with red and yellow. It makes him want
to withdraw with a bowl of rice and beans.
He complains Stravinsky doesn’t rinse
the slime off okra, leaves enough in his music
to make Harry want to climb a mountain
to hide out in a cabin where he can listen
to Gershwin’s royal blue chords carry
the harmonies of hot asphalt after summer rain.
In politics, his choices run toward those
whose voices soothe like flannel pajamas,
satin, and woolen quilts, not the shouters
who promise fairness feasts, even when
he shares their hope. A volunteer, he arrives
early at the polls on Election Day, brings
goodies for his fellow workers. He’s the one
whose hair smells like brownies. Ask him
for his opinion on any subject and he’s
ready with the one he’s simmered
on the back burner, tasted and corrected
with a little salt, a dash of red pepper.
©2020 Joan Mazza
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