I once wrote a poem about pots and pans,
and how they lined my wall.
I spoke about their scorched bottoms. (Some more than others.)
How they fed my marriage;
deep dark sauces, sometimes too salty — too little — not enough,
and I would wipe my sweaty forehead.
Now those pots and pans are on shelves.
Organized and wobbly. Still scorched. Familiar.
I also remember carrying a half pig a half mile.
It was for a friend, and it was for her birthday.
I filled their kitchen with smoke from too much
butter in biscuits.
We laughed, and drank more wine.
Proud of my pots and pans.
It was a beautiful roast!
for the solstice,
for my friend.
I was half paid in apples and words,
but I was in love with this thing,
and the truth is —
I really love apples and words.