THE HERO

The Mamaloshen


I like the mamaloshen, the mother tongue
Spoken in the market, the back street
The kitchen, the pantry
The nursery
Spoken by voices raised to kvetch
And to sing
We write our prayers
Our poems
In the dough
Of our noodles
Our biscuits, our bread
In the dough of
Our zaftig selves
Ripe and juicy as the parts of soup
From the bland to the zesty
We mingle and meld the morsels of ourselves
With a thwack of a knife
And a long slow simmer
Then
We serve every last sweet drop

I too came from a sect
Who claim the blessing, the sacred, the power
Rests only in the hands of the men
They speak a different language
And consider themselfs above, apart

Indeed
Amen

I have been in the world long enough to know
The touch of power
To feel the sacred echo
Of the dance of the divine
When I come to that place
Where I need hands laid upon me to heal
I will ask for
Women

Let me hear
The strength of mamaloshen
Spoken soft in voices that sing babies to sleep
Lay on my head
The hands that roll the dough
That thwack the knife
That rock the cradle

Send me someone who knows
The holy healing power
Of soup


©Edwina Peterson Cross