ODE TO DOILIES

Not to the paper wisps, not those sliced by machine,
but the ones that wearied a woman’s fingers. 

The ones piled in an antique shop,
ten for a dollar and sure to be mocked 

if noticed at all—yes, they are worthy of praise.
Here are the saviors of coffee tables,  

collectors of grease stains and iced tea tears.
Where else would the crystal bowl rest  

its butter mints? Who else would hold
the cake stand with such reverent fear of crumbs? 

Eve came along because Adam wasn’t enough.
Enough wasn’t enough.  

I believe in a God of flamboyant frills, one who painted
peacocks for the love of it, whose self-portrait  

includes zinnias and needlework, lace and glitter.
Like my grandmothers she makes both  

the feast and the garnish. Her hands are
gnarled, cut, and burned with care. Aren’t they  

beautiful? Praise her crocheted creation,
a pearl of cobbler caught forever in her halo.