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THE HUNGRY SOUL
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The Hungry Soul: Songs for the Spirt

THE CUP

The pulse of the house
has slowed to an empty throb.
Deep into the daily dusting
of her life, the old woman stops
at the tarnished silver baby cup
retired on the shelf.

She lifts it gently, cradles
it in her palms to move it
slowly toward her chest.
Pressing it firmly against her breastbone,
she breathes deeply,
then returns it to the shelf.
Polish will not quench
such deep thirst.

IN EACH VESSEL

I don't know how often she does this,
but she's outside again
mumbling to herself as she
does when she thinks no one can hear.

Her gray head's bowed as she hopes,
through sheer force of will,
to undo the weight of snow upon snow
constricting into itself
so she can set the flowers free.

She has the eyes of Michelangelo
as he tries to penetrate marble,
discover the form waiting within
and chisel the vision true.

Somewhere deep inside she remembers
the lost tribe who long ago knew enough
to create each piece of pottery
with an extra opening so the spirit
within each vessel would not be trapped.

So she's out there again, in the cold,
talking herself through her days
in some primitive tongue,
searching for the opening.

Copyright 1995, Irene King Howe. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of the author from The Song She Gurads

CLICK HERE to find out more about Irene Howe.


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