Amuse-Bouche for Lulu by Emily Wall

Amuse-Bouche for Lulu

.                                        –       a pantoum

I sit at your scrubbed wooden table, in that perfect hunger

before you pick up the mortar and pestle, a few small olives, garlic.

Outside the window grow the flavors of Provence: smoky, sweet.

Like this, you show me, grinding the pestle.  Now, you try it.

 

Before you pick up the mortar and pestle, a few small olives, garlic,

you remind me it’s not about how it looks. It’s humble, this small toast.

Like this, you show me, grinding the pestle.  You try it.

Garlic, olives, oil.  That’s it.  Don’t get fancy, don’t show off

 

you scold me.  It’s not about how it looks.  It’s humble, this small toast.

I bring it to my mouth, and I fall in love:  with garlic, with Lulu, with my body.

Garlic, olives, oil. Maybe capers.  But that’s it.  Don’t get fancy, don’t show off,

just taste, just breathe.  Just remember.

 

I bring it to my mouth, and I fall in love. Garlic, Lulu, my body:

eyes closed, I see my pure self, in the kitchen in Berkeley.  At my table.

I just taste, just breathe.  Then I remember

that the secret is foraging.  To find the farmer who loves garlic.

 

Eyes closed, I see my pure self in the kitchen in Berkeley.  At my table

a farmer tells me about a woman growing olives, out in the foothills.

Learn the secrets:  forage, meet the farmer who loves garlic.

I stand in the market, and the olive grower hands me one olive.  I bite its dark skin.

 

That farmer told me about this woman who grows olives out in the foothills.

Jeremiah and I could use these.  I think of a hungry woman, who will come tonight.

As I stand in the market, the olive grower hands me another olive.  I bite.

That hungry woman, who has maybe never felt the weight of a pestle, needs this food.

 

Jeremiah and I can use these tonight.  I think of the hungry woman, who will come

and how this olive grower, and me, and the woman, will touch: hand to table to tongue.

This woman, who has maybe never felt the weight of a pestle, needs this food.

I open my eyes, and there you are, Lulu, pure oil on your hands. Anointed.

 

This olive grower, and me, and the woman, will touch: hand to table to tongue.

Outside the window grow the flavors of Berkeley: smoky, sweet.

I open to you, Lulu, pure oil on your hands. Anointed,

I sit at your scrubbed wooden table.  In perfect hunger.

 

About the Poet

Emily Wall is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Alaska.  She has been published in a wide variety of literary journals in the US and Canada, most recently in Prairie Schooner and Alaska Quarterly Review.  In 2013 she won a statewide contest and a poem of hers was placed in Totem Bight State Park in Ketchikan, Alaska.  Her first two books were published by Salmon Poetry. Her most recent collection, titled Breaking into Air, is forthcoming from Red Hen Press.  Emily lives and writes in Juneau, Alaska.