Prologue
We are making dinner. It is growing dark outside.
Autumn makes herself known on our countertops:
persimmons, quince, pomegranates.
There are 613 seeds in every pomegranate, you say,
which for the Jews represents righteousness.
All I can see are paper skins rouged with vermilion
and, beneath that, the red fruits heavy with juice.
If it is true that each fruit holds 613 seeds
and that this is, therefore, a symbol,
our act of cooking is full of meaning.
In Rome, I say, before selecting the site of a city
the priests would sacrifice a hare and a dove
and examine the entrails, to view their fortunes
and see if the area could sustain life.
You separate the chicken,
the knife flashing as thighs come apart
and breasts and legs fall into the pot.
The gizzard, liver, and heart
you set on the board smiling,
in light of what I had said.
The meal takes a long time to prepare.
It seems we are nowhere near done.
There is late corn, too. I strip off the tassels
and gaze into the patterns of silk
to try and discern the future.
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I am going to compile a collection of poems about... the events of this past year. I expect that this task will take a very long time--maybe years. I've entitled this poem "Prologue" for a number of reasons. First, one of my earliest memories is cooking Valentine's Day dinner with her. Second, there is always this human desire to know what will happen in the future. It's probably for the best that we can't know.
Autumn makes herself known on our countertops:
persimmons, quince, pomegranates.
There are 613 seeds in every pomegranate, you say,
which for the Jews represents righteousness.
All I can see are paper skins rouged with vermilion
and, beneath that, the red fruits heavy with juice.
If it is true that each fruit holds 613 seeds
and that this is, therefore, a symbol,
our act of cooking is full of meaning.
In Rome, I say, before selecting the site of a city
the priests would sacrifice a hare and a dove
and examine the entrails, to view their fortunes
and see if the area could sustain life.
You separate the chicken,
the knife flashing as thighs come apart
and breasts and legs fall into the pot.
The gizzard, liver, and heart
you set on the board smiling,
in light of what I had said.
The meal takes a long time to prepare.
It seems we are nowhere near done.
There is late corn, too. I strip off the tassels
and gaze into the patterns of silk
to try and discern the future.
--------
I am going to compile a collection of poems about... the events of this past year. I expect that this task will take a very long time--maybe years. I've entitled this poem "Prologue" for a number of reasons. First, one of my earliest memories is cooking Valentine's Day dinner with her. Second, there is always this human desire to know what will happen in the future. It's probably for the best that we can't know.