Anne Lévesque
Delight
The black flies stick
to the corn lady’s
rugosa cheeks and
soft cowled throat
fly away, bulbous
with her blood,
drunk
on her laughter
The black dog runs behind her
From clay and wet
she coaxes the small spears
props them up with bits of song
sweetens them with promises
of sunshine
and butter
and friends at the table
All the lines of her fingers run mud
Out in the world
she tenders love, admiration
and apologies,
pesto peaches and
self-deprecation
dinner invitations
Sweet corn
Her one sin the angelica
she has loosed
on the square dance road it runs,
rapacious root of the holy ghost
tumult of leaf and cloud
but wait:
does it not ward off
evil spirits?
bestow long life?
And its stems, candied,
are said to delight.