Anne Barrett         

Hot Lemonade
3rd Prize Poetry Contest 2005

At the kitchen table with crayons and Kleenex,
cranky, raw with colds, in a feverish haze
we see our father at the stove. Not the everyday

father, but a secret version of him, the face
a mask, a conjured smile in place of the usual grim
mouth, as if a spell has been cast on him.

The slim silver stem of a spoon appears
in his fingers where there should be a hammer,
a rake. His hands charm every drop of juice

from the lemons, stir the potion in the pan.
We are hypnotized by the lilting music
of his voice. It sounds like prayer.

A twist of his wrist and the wand of the spoon
catches dripping strings of honey. Cup by cup,
he pours. Hot fog rises around this mystery

of smile and voice and his hand on our heads.
Gold dissolves into gold and we take a sip.
If we can suffer the tangy steam that makes

our noses run, the citrus sting on our sore throats,
we can drink from the grail, claim the talisman,
catch the melted drop of sweetness on our tongues.