Sandi Leibowitz

She lights two candles.
Should she blow them out?
Perhaps her guest prefers
the cloak of darkness,
to slip in like Elijah unannounced.

The table’s set with amber goblets,
cobalt plates, pine-green napkins;
the arrangement pleases her.
—Or should she have chosen
something more traditional,
fetched the Wedgwood,
kept consistently to blue?

She puts the kettle on to boil.
She would read the tea leaves
if she knew how.
She stares intently at their mute mud,
hoping the silver strainer
will leave her brew clean and clear.

She has a Riesling and a Shiraz,
sunflowers and roses,
Bach and jazz.

The sharp knife is ready
for whatever will need cutting.

She circles the table thrice,
closes her eyes in holy dread;
she did that once and things went well.

She sits down,
folds her hands
like a good girl at school,
listens to the silence,
and waits for the Muse to come.