✨ Due to the Loss of Field Roast Artisan Grain Sausage

trying to comfort...

Due to the Loss of Field Roast Artisan Grain Sausage

Under the pastry board
that pulls out like an awning,
I found her. Half in, half out
of a cabinet door,
its shelter a hard cloak
that could hide the tears.

She was weeping
because we forgot to leave her
more than one ring
of spicy sausage.

Come here,

I told her, and gathered her
thirteen-year-old frame
into my arms, pulled her
towards my warm body.

I love that you are crying about sausage,

I said. And she rolled her eyes
like I was just some crazy mama
trying to comfort with nonsense.

No, really,

I whispered. Because, I told her,
not everyone would cry about sausage.
She might be a famous chef someday
or a travel and food writer.

Such a person might cry
under an awning in New York
or Paris, about a sausage,
or a lost link to some recipe
from the past.

—L.L. Barkat

✨ This poem is offered for our May theme: Mother

From Love, Etc., T. S. Poetry Press , © 2021, 2014. Used with permission of the poet. Photo by The Now Time, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.