Ritual Poem by Lorna Billanes

Funny how this taro leaf reminds me of a heart-
its shape, the veins that flow outward from the core.
A bit of fancy and it won't be hard
to find it pulsing lightly in my hands.
I'm thinking of a heart-
My own, the first time
I felt it breaking.
This must be how this heart-leaf
must feel now, as I flake it into many pieces.
All moments center around this ritual
of leaves held together as a bouquet,
left to bake in the sun
later to be torn into a hundred little pieces.
How often have I mimicked
Mother's deft movements
as she with strong, steady fingers
traced the outline of the heart-leaf
starting at the core, where the stalk ends
and each vein begins.
Soon there would be a mound of greens
thinly flaked, spread out on whatever could hold them:
a wicker basket, a huge plate, a winnower.
Imagine what this heart-leaf must go through.
Seated across from Mother
I don't speak of what ails me
or what I think the future holds,
for it is in silence
that this ritual of flaking
the heart-leaf must take place,
lest the dish be ruined.
So now I think of the heart-leaf
as my own small heart being ripped to pieces.