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by Linda Simone
The pot I took from my mother's kitchen
after she stopped cooking Sunday dinner
for good, is lusterless and dented
and large enough to feed twelve.
Each Sunday morning, I anoint scratched bottom
with golden oil to brown links and rounds of pork and beef.
Oregano and garlic incense wends
slow journey to Tuckahoe mornings,
when this very vessel's musica sacra
greeted me upon return from church or, years later,
as I awoke from sweet sleep.
Now, as I join plum tomatoes, water,
add pepper, parsley, basil and salt,
I replicate her common prayers and psalters.
Do this in remembrance of me.
What remains is to stir and stir
for hours until the red gravy
thickens, semolina boils, loaves multiply.
Originally published in Cradle Songs: An Anthology of Poems on Motherhood (Quill and Parchment Press~2012)
Winner of the 2013 International Book Award Honouring Excellence in Independent and Small Press Publishing for Best Poetry Anthology.