Unsung Songs

"There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you."
--Maya Angelou

Some stories we bear as whispers
secrets too terrible to tell
silently they cower inside us
lacking the courage to fly
their telling unspoken
of places so broken
the heart is unable to mend
but life and its woes
its joys and its blessings
calls us to rush out the door
race through the streets
let loose a whoop
gather the stars in our arms
in the dark of the night
under the light of the moon
the places inside you are listening
with the mouth of your heart
let the telling begin
sing the unsung songs of your soul
unsilence the stories you've silenced
unburden your bones and be free
dance in the dark with the gypsies
relinquish your agony

La Befana

With eyes the color of mortal sin

a heart as magical as the moon

she spends her days sweeping

and baking

mending and tending

preparing her home for love

and for hope.

Some say the Magi stopped at her doorstep

inquiring about Bethlehem;

they wanted to visit a special child,

they asked Befana to show them the way,

travel with them; but she declined.

Wiping tears from her cheeks

she longed to cradle her own dead children

long ago taken from her arms.

The Magi left, but Befana’s sorrow did not;

she filled a sack with toys

and cookies, bread and sweets

to soothe the soul and sustain the body,

she straddled her broomstick,

flew from house to house,

leaving presents on darkened doorsteps,

seeking the Divine in every child,

not one, particular, Savior born in

a manger or a cave,

but all the girls, all the boys

whose laughter and joy

save the whole, wide, round

world from despair.

Note: In Italian folklore, La Befana is the kind, old woman with magical powers who brings gifts to the children of Italy on the eve of the Epiphany.

The Blessings of Ravioli

The ravioli lay on floured

pillow cases on your dining room table

looking like stuffed pillows

themselves —

the dough kneaded smooth,

then rolled to the right thickness,

the spinach and ricotta filling

dropped like clusters of

snow-crusted grass

onto the naked strips of pasta,

plumped into fullness

with a quick fold of the dough,

the corners tucked in place with the

pinch of a fork.

Your hands move in a holy rhythm.

You anoint the ravioli with

flour to prevent them from drying out.

White halos the arch of your cheekbone as

you laugh and sprinkle, saying,

“Bless these ravioli,” like some Italian nun.

I laugh, too,

reminded of my Catholic grade school days.

I wish we had known each other then.

We could have draped our little girl bodies

in my grandmother’s

gaudy red and yellow aprons

and watched her wrinkled fingers press each ravioli

into perfect form.

“The secret’s in the touch,” she told me.

Life is full of such holy mysteries.

How could I have known

the blessings of ravioli

passed from Grandma’s hands

to mine, and now to yours.

I touch your floured fingertips

and smile.

There is grace here

and beauty beyond words.

©1993, Mary Saracino

Originally published in Writers Who Cook, Herringbone Press (Minneapolis: 1993).