SAINT JULIAN PRESS
Elizabeth Cohen ~ Poet
The Cabbage
It took me far too long to crack the spine
open the silken pages
to read the book of the cabbage.
Peruse the pages of luminous flesh;
consider all the smooth, ivory opinions.
The tough orb in its squeaky jacket
called me out in the vegetable aisle
of Price Chopper. It had a story
which had come up from the dark loam.
It had traveled with its siblings, captive in a bin,
brave immigrants to this fluorescent country.
It took me years to learn the braille of the cabbage
and discover its intelligence, the ways it can instruct bellies
to be brim-full, finished with hunger.
Simmered in the pan, with a single cleft of garlic
the leaves go soft to the spoon;
inside the mouth, they are wholesome
and rubbery. They make sense.
You can consume the cabbage just like this, boiled to clarity.
Or wrap the steamed pages of flesh around other foods
in an embrace of sweet crunch, or chop them into a stew.
You could bring some to your neighbor in a soup,
(he is eighty-seven and fought in the Korean War).
Or chop it up teensy for the infant daughter of your ex-babysitter
who smears the leaves on her chin. You could stir fry
it with raisins. (I swear this is good.)
The world is unraveling, but cabbage is steady.
High seas encroach on island nations, mud tumbles down hillsides,
burying towns. Yet there it sits anyway, stubborn and sure of itself
on the counter, rotund, earnest. Everywhere, ice is invading
or shrinking, rivers are drying up, whole lakes can vanish in a day,
but the cabbage is without struggle.
Pure muscle that comes up from the earth.
It took me far too long to crack the spine
open the silken pages
to read the book of the cabbage.
Peruse the pages of luminous flesh;
consider all the smooth, ivory opinions.
The tough orb in its squeaky jacket
called me out in the vegetable aisle
of Price Chopper. It had a story
which had come up from the dark loam.
It had traveled with its siblings, captive in a bin,
brave immigrants to this fluorescent country.
It took me years to learn the braille of the cabbage
and discover its intelligence, the ways it can instruct bellies
to be brim-full, finished with hunger.
Simmered in the pan, with a single cleft of garlic
the leaves go soft to the spoon;
inside the mouth, they are wholesome
and rubbery. They make sense.
You can consume the cabbage just like this, boiled to clarity.
Or wrap the steamed pages of flesh around other foods
in an embrace of sweet crunch, or chop them into a stew.
You could bring some to your neighbor in a soup,
(he is eighty-seven and fought in the Korean War).
Or chop it up teensy for the infant daughter of your ex-babysitter
who smears the leaves on her chin. You could stir fry
it with raisins. (I swear this is good.)
The world is unraveling, but cabbage is steady.
High seas encroach on island nations, mud tumbles down hillsides,
burying towns. Yet there it sits anyway, stubborn and sure of itself
on the counter, rotund, earnest. Everywhere, ice is invading
or shrinking, rivers are drying up, whole lakes can vanish in a day,
but the cabbage is without struggle.
Pure muscle that comes up from the earth.
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Cover Art: Alexandra Eldridge
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Saint Julian Press, Inc. * Houston, TX 77008 * Ron Starbuck ~ Publisher-CEO
Email: ronstarbuck@saintjulianpress.com * Web: www.saintjulianpress.com
Saint Julian Press, Inc. * Houston, TX 77008 * Ron Starbuck ~ Publisher-CEO
Email: ronstarbuck@saintjulianpress.com * Web: www.saintjulianpress.com
SAINT JULIAN PRESS, INC. © 2022
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As an Amazon Associate — Saint Julian Press, Inc. may earn funds from any qualifying purchases.
This arrangement does help to sustain the press and allow us to publish more books by more authors.