Poetic Journal Year 166 B.E.

166.180 Cleaning cilantro

Cleaning cilantro

The cilantro has wilted.

Too cold in the icebox,
it's emerald leaves darkened with dots.

I sit with it.
Hold it.
Pull leaves off limp stems.

Too fresh to be wasted.

I'll sauteé some
then save some,
consign the rest to the freezer.

The stems I'll throw out.

My hands smell like balogna,
remind me of ceviche,
fresh corvina soured in lime
with sprigs of cilantro
much like these.

Chartreuse stems pile up
like spring clippings of mown grass,
fragrant and useless.

Green leaflets like clover,
plucked one at a time:

Will he love me?
Will he love me not?

Love me cilantro...

...for he may not.

© Kåre Enga [166.180] 2009-08-14