Poetry Month – April 24, 2024 – On the Altar


Maybe the only fancy restaurant she knew was the Yankee Peddlar Inn in Holyoke, Massachusetts.
Maybe the most special meal she ate was wedges of cold iceberg lettuce with Thousand Island dressing and medium rare roast beef with potatoes au gratin.
Maybe she’d only ever dined with her parents who talked about the weather and bridge club and the children.
Maybe she never seen a restaurant draped in silks so it looked like she was inside I Dream of Jeannie’s magic bottle.
Maybe she’d never sat on the floor on cushions so plump she could recline between bites.
Maybe she never eaten food with her fingers so the juices drizzled around her wrist.
Maybe she’d never seen tea poured from six feet above her tiny cup, cooling as it streamed, so that it was the perfect drinking temperature when the cup was filled.
Maybe she didn’t know that dinner conversation could meander through dreams and desires while nibbling Persian cucumbers and couscous and lamb tangine
Then she did.
And her world was never the same.





1975. Linda Lyon. San Francisco. The world got bigger. Of course, I kept the matches.