Crone on Time

She pulls a late shift on the dreamline, frying
                        canola for canola's sake, taking orders
                                   from the starving saints in the pleasure-
             cloister of her sear-wizened head.  Her onion
skin crackling, pungent yet pleasant, when fried
in the oil of her sweat, staining erotic aprons...
Brow furrowed, in a trance brought on
 by years of labor, she conjures forgetting,
  beautiful in her ranginess, unaware
   of the spell she has cast on me - longing
     for the hours of her knife, contemplating
    the craft of sacrifice.