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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Three Issue One |
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Pilgrim Wife Let me cook something hearty for you. Then you'll know by the rich texture of a meal, the loaded mint of a dish, the traces of sweet-smelling sauce and juice that ease themselves into your mouth, exactly how I taste. Our good fortune ripens in a feast of newness, constance, burning. On a well-lit table dripping with raffia bows in goldenrod and violet, see how the goblets mimic my shape, the tapered midsection made to hold and drink. In persimmon pudding and peeled red grapes, my fingers sink for the sake of your mouth. Know my flavor in the spice and abundant crisp of greens on your tongue, the shocking aftertaste In my palms, eggs devil and marmalade cream rises. Our Thanksgiving indulgence will always be a cornucopia of baked apricots, ginger-pear cobbler, layers of roasted meat, moist with the fervor of an eager oven. See in this meal how I will fill you perpetually, how you will taste me even in the giving of thanks. |
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