March 15, 2014

Ruth E. Foley


It is not warm enough for basil yet
so I am making parsley pesto. My
fingers are green. His train is pulling in.
Soon, he will pass me on his way to leash

the dog. I will get a forehead kiss, lean
a moment on his chest, my fingernails
hovering above the parmesan, my
knife no longer rocking on the butcher

block. I want him to press my fingers to
his mouth, tell me I taste like spring.
Tell me to rest the pestle, take it from
my hands, angle it against the mortar.

Tell me, while the neglected pignoli
burn black and the gemelli boils over.

from Rattle #18, Winter 2002
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