THE GARLIC LADY IN FEBRUARY

I am the garlic lady, six
pressed cloves on my spaghetti, and
those bulbs as raw as myself or
this blustery day

which I shall spend at home, entertaining
myself. I find my jokes
enormously funny, and I know
about herbs and botanicals, too.
Take the pungent healing tuber
I love to chew: it’s allium,
an errant member of the lily family
and you’d sweat it through your pores
if you wore it in your shoe.

For just today I’ve ten good books
and wood and food and dire. Only
sleet and gust are welcome guests;
who’d dare drive this windy way, to knock
at my steamy kitchen, who would
intrude? I am the red-wine one-woman
gypsy coven, and I dance
and dance and dance
my smell is strong and my taste
is strong, and you say
I am wild, yet never will begin to see
me dance and dance and dance

Now if you should see me walking the town,
if you dare, watch for me eyes:
they’ll catch you like a dime on the sidewalk.
Put this meeting in your pocket; now add
your chilly fingers. Now, now,
though you may not see me again ’til April,
your hands are warm for the rest of the winter.