Many things are two-named. Borlotti are also called cranberry beans. Shell them & be delighted by their quietly speckled white flesh. Meaty & delicious. Just like you wish every poem put in your mouth.
When you cook them, keep their color in your memory. They cook into a nondescript beige, though the taste is anything but nondescript.
Isn't every bean a petite poem waiting to be tasted?
Speaking of beans, casseroles, and pot pies, things which age and gain merit with age, a volume I recently looked at again yielded some well-stewed lines. In time, they can be revisited again and again, in new forms, new surfaces. Perhaps they'll show up on a painting, in graphite and gesso, reminders of a year ripe with poetics.
ReplyDeleteReconstructions from April 2010, Constellations
Lower Antilles, confusion on a mapped out lie
She's sputtering before a chock-full season
Lackadaisical high notes, wandering through the basin--
in one more greening meadow, they hold out a pail of hope
Awash with mango and the passion of two centuries
In this fair dawn I do abandon the gondola, left to weather by the lake
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