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.