I tried
to grow it once
in this northern clime
but my dad said it needs
lots of hot July nights
steamy the whole month
the kind I slept through
as a child unaware

so I grew a few measly
pods tough and stringy
but satisfying something
in my transplanted soul
that longed for all those
things I never noticed

the way my mother
cooked it not boiled and
slimy but sliced crosswise
dipped in cornmeal batter
and fried crisp in hot oil
parceled out to a family
of six each vying for the
crispies in the bottom
of the pan or else

she fixed it with corn
cut fresh off the cob
tomatoes just picked
peeled and chopped
in a dish we called
cornokraandtomatoes
words and vegetables
all steamed together
sprinkled liberally with
the hot July nights of
Louisiana Hot Sauce

a bite of pleasure
that lingers still
on the palate
beyond any
reasonable
passage
of time


This poem first appeared in 2010 as a bookmark by Poetry at the Market, a Partnership project of Foot of the Lake Poetry Collective,
Fond du Lac Public Library, Windhover Center for the Arts, Fond du Lac, WI. Used here with permission.