Tuesday Morning Poem

Charoset and Bitter Herbs

An amalgam of ground pecans, chopped apples,
red wine, and nutmeg
primes us to recall the taste of mortar— 

the timeworn saga of servitude and how despots’
sovereignties always hinge on slavery.
But instead, it is sweet as honey

and reminds me that all history
is gloss, and how recollection, like nostalgia,
adds false notes of harmony to bitter herbs.

You were my mortar, when I needed horseradish
to loosen tears. You float into view
and I cringe at what I did to push you away.

Sweet and bitter are bound and every year
I recant vows with sips of soured wine.
It is only myself I risk enslaving,

immersed as I am in this freedom song.
As penance, I sometimes wonder
what it was I did to deserve you.

from slight faith, MoonPath Press
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One Response to Tuesday Morning Poem

  1. Steve Bunch says:

    Wonderful poem, Risa. I especially like what you’re doing with sound, as here:
    “…all history
    is gloss, and how recollection, like nostalgia,
    adds false notes of harmony to bitter herbs.”
    Sound and sense in harmony.
    S.

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