SPELL FOR THE RIGHT AVOCADO Poem by Elizabeth Cohen

my mother taught me
how to crush a clove of garlic
with the heel of my hand
and watch the skin fall right off,
like a bride disrobing, her dress
left behind, in a heap of tulle

she taught me how to peel
a hardboiled egg perfectly,
leaving the smooth skin
unblemished and pure,
and how to unwind the thick glossy
shawl of the orange,
leaving an enchanted swirl

also, how to:

toothpick a cake
harden sugar
salt caramel
braise flesh

and because of her mammoth patience
I know how to rumcake and fruitcake,
how to gingerbread and even soufflé
(which is touchy)

in the grocery store, she would use her secret powers
to knock on the melons and assess the beans,
she was a necromancer of beets

but it was green-black oval of the avocado
that showcased her best sorcery;
she could parse the contents with a single touch
and split one neatly, removing its heart
like the woodsman in Snow White
who had been instructed by the witch,
"bring me the heart"

in this case, you keep it; leave it there in the crushed
green flesh of the guacamole, salted and leaved
with chopped cilantro and garlic,
the seed heart will protect this stew like a charm

"leave it right in there," she said
tossing a pinch of salt over her shoulder.
"Remove the pit and before you know it
the whole thing will go black"

(Author photo by Allison Lett)