INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michael D. Long
Mary E. Finlan
Whenever my young squash plants
put forth their large yellow blooms
I think not of warty crooknecks,
baseball-bat zucchinis or ratatouille,
but of your telling me how Aztec priests
ate the hearts of sacrificed virgins
with squash blossoms for garnish.
Your eyes gleamed as if you'd joined in.
You didn't say if they sautéed them first
or what powers the combination imparted.
But whenever we meet for lunch
I am careful to guard my cleavage.
WHY DID YOU CHOOSE APRIL?
For months you knew
you were dying yet
lingered until this season
of forsythia, daffodils.
Did you remember
until the earth warmed?
Yet you cursed the heat
of our rampant summers,
sadness of autumn.
You who no longer fear
a shift in the weather
did you think it kinder
we shuffle through
rather than snowdrifts,
Elisavietta Ritchie, Washington, D. C.