Cherry Soup Poem by Morgan Michaels

The cherries were having a year.
So many there were
rolling around on the counter-top, it was almost a pity.

So many, I didn't know what to do-
till I remembered an old girlfriend in Detroit,
vaguely Polish, but whose mom was Really Polish

and used to make cherry soup, cold, each Christmas.
Apparently, you can make soup out of anything-
a good thing- all you need's water,

which in New York we have plenty of, gracias a Dio.
So, I Googled-up a recipe
thanks to 'Ruth', and fleshed it out a bit.

Into the boil went cherries
like buffalos over the cliff in the Wojnarowski print.
Aviso: start with cold water.

As in some kind of trance, I watched
as the cherries sank and rose furiously,
soon yielding their blood to the stew.

It was dizzying. After adding lemon
I clamped down the lid and left:
Cooking is for the brave.

But, it was alright, finally,
chilled, with a dash of sour cream-
good enough for a hot August night.

Poetry is not just about death, unrequited love,
the need to understand the world
or become spiritually un-emcumbered.

Sometimes, it's more serious than that.
And, tho' to a middling mind
these themes recur again and again and again,

they rarely hit the essence,
the meta-physical core of the matter, which, after all,
treats of the noble (and recurring) theme of 'feeding the beast'.

Yes, poetry is also about cooking.
'Cooking'? you ask, incredulously.
'Yes', I reply, 'cooking'.

Do you not recall that time-defying cry of Julia Childs'
'De-bone the little ba- - - on a chop-block'-
What was that but vero kitchen poetry.

What was it but poetry when James Beard droned,
with Ronsardian lucidity,
'take one large or two medium-sized pullets'.

Perhaps you don't believe me.
If not- 'tant pis' as the French say.
But if so, make my day. Make this poem a rondelay-
Take it from the top. Read it, again.