The Patron Saint of Cauliflower

caraway, paprika, cumin, fresh dill
in short, empty in the whole spice rack

black pepper, allspice, thyme
pluck the garden clean of root vegetables

garlic, onion, a dozen beets
then gently shake in a century of running

the blood hue of a fresh pogram
soak in sunlight glazing the mist around graves

add in the sound of a million kaddishes chanted in moonlight

add in vinegar
because vinegar has a history

in your mother’s kitchen, she was fussy about vinegar: apple, not wine, not balsamic, not champagne

add in the look on your father’s face as he tipped the first spoonful

into his mouth
which is the look of five hundred years

of soup descending onto his lips, serve hot or cold

it doesn’t matter really
it is the taste of the earth that everything grew in

that matters
the drop of sour cream on top

and freshly diced parsley
tasting of the wind that rifled its locks

then taste the way your parents loved each other for half a century

savory and sweet

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