A poem by Wayne Winter
Canning is a woman's past-
time, slicing corn
from cob, stuffing
jars with beans
and herbs. I tame
vegetables, prune
vines, cook peas
in a double boiler.
Food from jars
is domestic
in its flavor.
A year ago we married
and bought this house.
He loved its high
walls, the white
fence, its garden pruned
like a kept woman's
hair. He loved the smell
of dill on my hands.
Now in the kitchen, garlic
brines the air, soaks
my skin with
flavor.
I save cucumbers and Ruby
Queen beets for pickling,
preserve carrots in glass Ball
Masons. Vegetables line up
in the
pantry like cows
in stanchions.
From sealed bay windows
I can see him keep
fields, disc through
rows
of corn. I am always
looking through glass
as the sun
ripens
waiting for him
to say that I
am as fresh
as when I
first
came here, that my lips
are ready to taste.
