Pressing Cane Poem by Ross Cohen

After the Thanksgiving
Meal, we pressed the cane.

The stripped stalks were cut;
You and I were to tease syrup

Out of the flaxy yield.
So we bundled the cane, held

It below a rolling stone,
And quashed the crop. Sweet water flowed

Into a bucket set
Beneath the press, collect

-ed, and was brought to a boil
In a fat, rust-stoked kettle

Drum.
That night, spread out
And sore, I watched you enter,
unannounced,

Rest your head on the bed’s far side,
And sigh

As you pressed your weight
Against my frame.

I’ve known the stone
cane’s cursed and blessed,
Its familiar weight,
once scorned, now missed.