Holiday season is best viewed
in my rearview mirror,
colored in the reds and greens
of childhood.
The baton pass
by the old year to the new
observed with quiet contemplation,
searching for hopefulness
in a world roiled
by heartache.
Comfort, reassurance, peace
found in the woods,
on the water,
in the kitchen
now sought
in a moldy leg of ham.
Situated amongst drying herbs and spices and
spiders’ webs lacing
dusty bottles of hoarded wine
hang various cuts of meats
in various states
of desirable desiccation.
Though unfounded
by years of spotty success,
their mere sight
inspires hunger,
expectation, excitement
for that first taste,
outweighing
trepidation,
fear of failure,
of being fouled again.
Like a passionate affair long cooled,
the shapely haunch was first
lavished
with attention, touch,
the finest provisions
and then left alone
to slowly twist in the wind,
almost two years hanging
by its hoof
in the back corner of a dark cellar.
Green furry mold scrubbed from flesh,
a dyed shearling coat
from a Warholian era
expunged with cool salty water
and patted dry
with the murmurings of tenderness
offered from a mother to child
cleaned of mud
after stomping puddles.
Feral aromas,
spongy texture,
sour flavors
just this side of acrid
now mirror my mood;
hopefulness ravaged
by an unknown fungus
among us.
The mind ricochets with self-loathing, recrimination
as tears flow
for the waste
of life,
of food,
of time.
New year’s beans and greens will be a pallid, lonely meal indeed. #prosciuttofail