Kelly R. Samuels
This is the process, a series
of actions or steps taken in order
to . . . something. Natural or involuntary
or systematic, the last like those Saturdays
canning. What was first, and then
second, and so on. The enormous canner
on the stovetop with its rumbling
as you sorted and then peeled
and then pitted the peaches, their ripe
skins sheathes on the board, clinging
to the knife's edge. The juice ran down
your wrist, sticky and troublesome.
You coated the slices in preserve
before cramming them into the jars
lined on the table, lined on
the counter, before covering them
with the hot, sweet syrup and then
immersing them. The timer made
its diligent harsh way while I asked
of altitude and what part it played.
You spoke of Colorado and the one time
we were there and how your head felt
as if it would break open. And then,
the precarious lifting and waiting . . .
counting, for the pop, the final ah!
I would carry the jars down
into the basement for you
and stand them on the shelves
and much later remember
them when reading that poem
by the famous poet and think of
preparation and the wet, jewel-
gold tongues kept. This, this task
learned by you, not me, never me,
now lost. Even in this telling, not all.
Some semblance of narrative but
some necessary gestures absent, wiped
away: the rattle of lids and rings
and their tightening, for example.
Or, even, how I made my way
through that bounty.