and I shall never
put you down
or leave you
behind
on a plate
to be discarded
or forgotten,
unloved.
“Ode to Bacon” first appeared here in July 2017, thanks to T.S. Wright’s challenge. Chemotherapy has wrecked (temporarily, I hope) my sense of taste. The other day I fried a few pieces of bacon because I wanted a bacon and egg sandwich. The egg was fine, but alas, the bacon was off. Still, I love the thought of munching on a crisp piece…
In April 2023 I was diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer. The cancer had spread to the lymphatic system, the brain, the liver and the pelvis (actually fracturing bone). The large lung mass was also responsible for partially paralyzing my vocal cords, in addition to affecting the heart, resulting in the implantation of a pacemaker. While the prognosis (not good—it’s terminal) and timing (uncertain) remain unchanged, I feel much better than I did when first diagnosed.
All this is to say that I admit to being surprised (though grateful) at my ongoing existence.
And I continue celebrating this persistence, despite certain setbacks. Lately, food has not appealed to me. Oh, I’m still eating, but food has become fuel rather than edible joy. I’m the guy who gets excited about red pepper paste, about finding mayacoba beans or za’atar seasoning on grocery shelves. Several months ago Stephanie and I were meandering (but not in a mazy motion, as in Coleridge’s Kubla Khan), in between medical appointments, the aisles of a store when I spotted a treasure. “Ooh, cornichons,” I exclaimed in my outdoor voice. I grabbed a jar, and babbled on, as I do, about how I needed them to make Julia Child’s potato salad. Stephanie looked amused, because, well, she’s used to my food enthusiasms. The potato salad was excellent, by the way.
But for the past six weeks or so, I seem to have lost this enthusiasm. Nothing has appealed to me. Or if it appealed to me before I started cooking, by the time I pulled it out of the oven, I no longer wanted it. Except last weekend, a brownie recipe slipped into my email inbox, and I simply, absolutely, inevitably, needed brownies. So I baked them. Dark chocolate, a smidgeon of espresso powder, chopped walnuts. THE BEST EVER! Perfect crust, crunchy exterior, moist, soft interior. Yum. It appears that my food enthusiasm isn’t entirely moribund. Perhaps I’ll become a baker. Maybe not.
But as this is a poetry blog, I should mention something about poetry. During the past year, knowing that my time is limited, and that if I want my poems to be published, I must send them out, I assembled several manuscripts: a couple of chapbooks, a micro-chapbook, and a second full-length book. The long and short of it is that within the next year, I’ll have had published, by five separate publishers, two full-length books, two chapbooks and one micro-chap. After so many years of accumulated rejections, this level of success is unprecedented. And very welcome! Something to celebrate! If only there were brownies…
Roasting peppers on the grill, I inhale
the odors of freshly sawed lumber
and turned earth. My back and knees
recall the doing, as I rejoice in the memory
of the new maul pounding rebar through
the timber’s holes into the ground.
I place the blackened peppers into a
paper wine bag where they’ll steam.
The saw rests on its shelf next to the
drill. The beer tastes bitter. Perfect.
“The Pleasure of the Right Tools” first appeared in Winnow Magazine in July 2020. I am grateful to Rachael Crosbie, Tristan Cody and friends for taking this poem.
I would knead you in the afternoon,
in the warmth of a still room,
starting high at the shoulders,
one finger sliding down your spine,
my lips following, tracing the path
of a hummingbird’s flight. Oh, my love,
circumstance and distance, floods and
wildfires, will never truly douse our light.
I wait as the dough rises, and think
in the languages of yeast and water
and flour and salt, how my hands
will feel at your waist, how our day
falls into night, our love firming,
ever expanding through the rising heat.
* * *
“Baking Bread” first appeared in Ristau: A Journal of Being in January 2019. Many thanks to editor Bob Penick for taking this piece.
My knife never sings but hums instead when withdrawn from its block, a metallic whisper so modest only the wielder may hear it. Or perhaps the dog, who seems to enjoy the kitchen nearly as much as I. A Japanese blade, it’s a joy to hold, perfectly balanced, stainless steel-molybdenum alloy, blade and handle of one piece, bright, untarnished, and so sharp as to slide through, rather than awkwardly rupture and divide, its next task on the board.
We’ve never counted the chopped and rendered onions, the fine dice, slender rings and discarded skins, but if we could gather all the corpses we’ve produced together over the years, we’d form a monument to our work, cooperation of metal and man, a Waterloo mound in memory of the bulbs laid there, the planning involved, the missteps and serendipity, and the tears shed along the way.
The blade doesn’t care. It is. It works. It moves things, it lifts, it parts them, and in return is cleansed, and later, in the quiet room, maintains its edge with a silvery rasp, angled steel on steel in a circular motion, over and over, until finally it hums its way back into the block. But it never sings.
“Onions” first appeared here in 2015. Hmm. This reminds me (again) that I need to sharpen knives…
Alas, my bout with COVID-19 has rendered me incapable of, or unwilling to, cut into onions. COVID-induced parosmia is still affecting me, and onions and garlic are still difficult to eat. But at least bacon, peppers, arugula, chocolate, and hoppy ales are once again palatable. Damned pandemic!
You can’t ever leave without saying something,
no matter how insipid. That sweater looks good
on you. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. I’m sorry
I burned the omelet. Nasdaq has plunged 3%
since last week. And I, in return, can’t let you go without
replying in equal measure. It matches your eyes. I love
to smell rain in August. That cheddar was delicious.
Maybe I’ll start a savings account. Next month.
So I wash dishes when you’re gone, wipe down the
counters, pour salt into the shaker, grab a book, join my
cat in bed. This tune’s been overplayed, the grooves’re
worn down. Maybe next time I’ll say what I mean,
tell you what I want: It would look better in a heap
on the floor. How about a shower here, tonight? Kiss
me and I’ll never think of it again. I don’t give a rat’s
ass about the stock exchange. Step away from that door!
I’ll make your lunch, butter your 7-grain toast, assemble
your IKEA furniture, balance your books, even dye
my hair pink, tattoo a pig on my thigh and drink light beer
in your honor, if you would agree to say what’s on your
mind. On second thought, don’t. Tell me, instead,
what I want to hear, but make it heart-felt. Truthful
and direct. Poached but earnest. Hard-boiled but tender.
I’ll cook your eggs. Invest in me. You’ll earn interest.
* * *
This originally appeared in August 2015, as the 25th offering in the Tupelo Press 30-30 fund raiser. Thank you, Pleasant Street, for sponsoring this.
O at the Edges 