The Mask-Maker (Il Mascherai)

I am a mascherari as ten fathers before me.

Their magic lives through my hands,

Enshrouding those I touch in mystery.

Venice sleeps under the blackest night;

The morning brings 30,000 from many lands.

I am a mascherari as ten fathers before me.

Many seek my touch, my skill, my insight,

But the choice is mine, you understand?

Enshrouding those I touch in mystery.

Jewel glass blown, leather stretched—gesso white

Gold leaf gleams with the touch of my hand

I am a mascherai as ten fathers before me.

Feathers in black and white take flight;

The bauta keeps your secrets where you stand,

Enshrouding those I touch in mystery.

Black velvet, the soft shimmer of your veil—ignites

Fire unknown, you disappear with a wave of your hand.

I am a mascherari as ten fathers before me.

Enshrouding those I touch in mystery.

© K.D. Schultz

Table Offerings

Cracked leather, safely
tucked away in the fortress
of old mahogany.

Pages crackle like kindling,
burning in the red glow
of fire and light.

Great, great mother of mine.

Delicate fingers, faded
swirls—seeped from feathers
plucked; sharpened nibs,
like an arrow in blood.

The secrets you left come to life
on the alter of creation;
amid heavy iron, ceramic bowls
in crimson and gold.

“A clove of garlic, a pinch of salt,
grind the pepper, don’t forget...”

I hear you in the gurgle: bubble, bubble...
I see you in the steam,
did I do it right?

Smooth oak handles crowned with Celtic loops:
turning, stirring, scooping
cleaver concoctions of wisdom.

Witches brew, goddess potions,
magic fare ignites, when                          
past and present collide
on the dinner table tonight.

© K.D. Schultz