Her mum taught
her patiently the art
of soul cake baking.
It was tradition
It was custom
It was (murder)
For women long ago
It was a desperate
“ under-taking"
Never –spoken-aloud;
a nod and sigh
humble tearful eyes.
When petticoats
hid bruises
black as darkest night.
When a womans
cry –howled- unto
the midnight skies.
There she be;
bruised, baking
ancestral remedy.
Tearfully stirring
laudanum, lye, and arsenic
folded gently into rum frosting.
Peacefully slumbers
(froths) a wicked man
unto eternal sleep. Amen.
An eye for an eye
justice or revenge
A woeful hallelujah
Each year, October 31st was
Widows Redemption Day-
Requiring;
A perfectly baked soul cake.
Blended, tended, carefully
by hand;
Rich butter, whole vanilla bean
And farm fresh eggs; whipped
with buttermilk, yeast and flour
delicately laced with summers
raspberry n’ cream topping.
Left upon her porch-for-
the wretched and poor
to devour, feast and pray.
Behold the beggars heart
which gratefully -repaid-
pleading-unto-the heavens;
Bless this home bountifully
Protect this home mightily
Forgive the living and their dead.
On October 31st;
each silent widow slept
soundly-and- morbidly- blessed.
It was tradition
It was custom,
It was (murder)
Kindly reminder;
Don’t forget to bake
Your….very best….
…..soul cake……..
October Thirty-first.
(Live not in sorrow, agony, or regret)
*
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
loved this , always love your work. best of luck in the contest 
