I had a dream about collard greens.
Pot after pot I would make.
Onions. Then the garlic.
Them leaves, shredded by hand, stem out,
because them things change when you work em’ with your hands.
(So they say…)
Wash away the wet dirt and little ones that thought they were delicious before you even woke up.
Add some to the pot. A little salt.
Steam. Let wilt.
Add some stock.
Add some leaves.
And the pot comes back empty,
people wantin’ more…
they always wantin’ more…
cider vinegar, that’s it!
I knew there was somethin’ else in here!
I always hear them say.
And I’ll tell em’ about the vinegar.
But there is something else in there.
That, I don’t even know.
What I do know is that them things get eaten up,
like moms kissin’ them babies faces when they’re asleep;
like warm bread with soft butter.
You cook em’ down till they’re tender;
till they smell like home.
Pot after pot I would make;
The onions, then the garlic.
Slirpin’ pot likker like some ancient elixir,
And them bowls,
filled with them collards,
tell a better story than I ever could.