Lisa Wujnovich practices healing work in farming, poetry, herbalism, teaching, and performance art. She lives and works with her husband and two teenaged children at Mountain Dell Farm in Hancock, New York, where they grow organic vegetable and herbs. She has been mentoring and working with apprentices on the farm for eighteen growing seasons.

Lisa wrote, illustrated, and sewed her first book in second grade, How the Rabbit Got Long Ears, the story of an exceptional rabbit in a popcorn patch. Currently, she is working on her second book, a collection of poetry reflecting the perspective of a farmer who crawls on her hands and knees on a regular basis for twenty years.

She holds a BA in drama from Antioch College and numerous herbal certifications. Of all her acting roles, she is most proud of her one-woman masked cabaret show, Ragged Panties. She is forever grateful for her apprenticeship with tovil dancer (healing dancer) G.S. Daharmesana in Galle, Sri Lanka. She has been a participant at the Catskill Poetry Workshop for three years and studies poetry at Binghamton University. She has been accepted to New England College’s MFA Poetry Program for Winter 2008.

Demon Gods

If I sweep the floor clear of charred coals
dustballs, animal dander, bread crumbs,
maybe I can keep thoughts of my son
in a crevice, crumbled like the car.

If I slice the onions in perfect rings
chop a whole pound of mushrooms--
add it to the rice I’ve soaked as he flew down the hill,
I can lock the thoughts in a crib, cornered
rattling, caged but untouched.

If I empty the washing machine of clothes
put them in the dryer, fold two loads
--a pile for her, a pile for him, fling his pant legs,
I can escape the thought of him running
up the hill, his brain swelling in his skull.

If I put on the tea kettle, pour the leftover batter
add frozen berries, cold to my touch,
I can hold in the distance
the thought of his body’s warmth
seeping out into chilled air.

I will not imagine what it would be like
to lose him, broken and hauled away
like the car. I refuse, I will not
imagine what can be, I will not court the gods.

In Sri Lanka, years before his birth,
I paid homage to the demons.
Sunlight fresh on the shore of a curved lagoon,
my hosts showed how to lay banana bark
sculptures in a shrine on a white marble floor.

Show me the shrine of the devouring gods,
what to leave--all of my best poems,
past and future, my unrestrained laughter?
What will flatter the demon gods in leading
my son on a ride through youth unscathed?