On the Brink

Saturday morning ginger
essence on my skin

to keep me eager
without doom, a cat scratch
scar on my ring finger
print that won’t quite heal

is no stigmata.
A tiny smear

of blood on paper
doesn’t speak
in any tongues. Aroma
therapy is no joke.

Whose Gingerbread

Do they remember
months after the solstice? Who

will speak
for you tomorrow morning

before strange fog
clears? Tonight this parade

answers no questions.

She cracks open a note
to see what’s inside.
Not that she would understand
the springs and pistons
responsible for a change

in key. Or the reflection
of a hidden spiral
stair in a window pane. A plate
of them—may as well be pomegranate
seeds or whole ginger.

She’s left to contemplate
a next step, forget
let it be.