May 29, 2024

Grandma's Cooking and Other Poems
by Holly Payne-Strange

​Grandma’s Cooking

Wet and warm and squelch-y
Like worms too lazy to wriggle, or eels, dredged from the sea.

Her grandmother’s recipe had always disturbed her.
The others laughed. It was only pasta, after all.
Fresh made, home made, Italian fettuccine. Who complained about that?

But she could have sworn she saw it move, when no one else was looking.
One lone strand curling back into the bowl,
Like a thief, slinking to a safe house, or an arm retracted in sleep.
But no one else saw it. No one else minded.
None suffered when they ate it up, seconds and thirds and leftovers the next day.

So one night, knowing how very sick her grandmother was,
Knowing it was perhaps her last chance to try, Gabriella grabbed a bite.
The old woman smiled and said
“Thank you for joining us. I was so hoping you’d be the final one to taste the dish,”
And for some reason, everyone else looked relieved.

Her grandmother died that very night.

But somehow her voice lingered, and her perfume,
And her recipe too.
And Gabrelia found she didn’t care so much about teenage things anymore,
Enraptured instead with old memories, remnants of wars and decades past.

It doesn’t matter what bowl dinner is in,
The dish will always be
The same.

Mist In Venice

Venice is misty in November. 
And empty, most tourists long gone by now, 
When I hum, it echoes through the alleyways, 
Broken only by the occasional click-clack of high heels 
And the flow of the canals. 

It is my favorite time of year, so peaceful, so serene. 
The darkness is almost cozy. 
And when the blood falls, it glimmers under the winter moon,
Practically glittering 
On the ancient buildings and fresh frost. 
And when I howl, only the poor, departed souls can hear it,
Their faces twisting with an unbearable loveliness. 

Because My Voice is lovely, 
Far too lovely for mortals to endure. 
It’s a prayer, 
It’s prosecco and peaches 
And all things 
Eternal. 

So I scoop out their insides, 
I examine them, laying out plainly 
All their faults, 
All their accomplishments, 
Knowing all too well 
How sweetness makes it worse. 
Sometimes I do pity them, 
But it’s rare.
The few, poor, twisted souls, 
That thought they could get a bargain deal 
By coming to venice
In November. 


Have you seen my doll? 

Have you seen my doll?
She has red hair, and a blue dress I sewed myself.
They promised they would let her stay with me
When they put me in the earth.
But they lied!  They lied and lied and lied!
They gave her to my sister instead, just because she cried.
The others in the ground felt me tossing and turning.
 “I’ll go and get it for you.” Someone finally wheezed,
 Voice shadow and bone. “But I’ll need some help.”
 And so a dozen or more scrambled out of the grave
Mostly intact, leaving only a head or leg or-
Oh! I think it’s over. I think they won! I think I’ll get my dolly back.

Disappear Diamond
 
I saw the Black Prince Ruby, gleaming on his chest. 
And then, I couldn’t look away. 
Framed with smoke, 
Hazy with greed made shadow. 
I never knew it was so perfect, an unblemished passion
That glitters and cries as he walks. 
 
He is beauty beyond reason. 
 
I followed him even as my feet bled 
Stumbling, unconcerned, over rock and root. 
My clothes now muddy and torn 
Rain only a distraction from his silent grace. 
He walks into the darkness
Earth shifts beneath my feet
Cerberus howls in the distance. 
 
I’m so happy. 
 
I can’t explain why, 
Especially as he takes and takes and takes, 
Not even looking at me. 
Sun and sadness erased 
Everything surrendered 
And memory fades. 

I wouldn't 
Change him
For all 
The world.

                                                                     💀💀💀


Holly Payne-Strange is a novelist, poet and podcast creator. Her writing has been lauded by USA Today, LA weekly and The New York Times. Additionally, she’s given talks on podcast creation at Fordham University and The Player’s Club. Her English language poetry has been published by various groups including Quail Bell Magazine, Call me (Brackets), and Red Door, while her work in Italian has been published by We Have Food At Home. She would like to thank her wife for all her support.