cook

appetite is the gift of forgiveness

Cook
by Jane Hirshfield

Each night you come home with five continents on your hands:
garlic, olive oil, saffron, anise, coriander, tea,
your fingernails blackened with marjoram and thyme.
Sometimes the zucchini’s flesh seems like a fish-steak,
cut into neat filets, or the salt-rubbed eggplant
yields not bitter water, but dark mystery.
You cut everything into bits.
No core, no kernel, no seed is sacred: you cut
onions for hours and do not cry,
cut them to thin transparencies, the red ones
spreading before you like fallen flowers;
you cut scallions from white to green, you cut
radishes, apples, broccoli, you cut oranges, watercress,
romaine, you cut your fingers, you cut and cut
beyond the heart of things, where
nothing remains, and you cut that too, scoring coup
on the butcherblock, leaving your mark,
when you go
your feet are as pounded as brioche dough.

“Cook” by Jane Hirshfield, from Of Gravity and Angels. © Wesleyan University Press, 1988. Reprinted with permission.

Antidote (Poem Spell)

sheep art by catherine

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Antidote (Poem Spell)

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stone in my heart be dust, be dust.

annoying wind, be cranberry yarn.

midnight storm, bring the clear tides in.

leaping dogs, bring the salty shells.

peasant bread, dip in olive oil.

reeds gold and pink, blow in the light.

clenched fist, open and wait.

riot of sunlight, set in the night.

don’t know what to do, you’ve come to the real work.

don’t know where to go, you’ve come to the real journey.

bafflement, get employed.

impeded stream, sing.

4/11/2017

quicksilver