Luisa M. Giulianetti is the 3rd place winner of Streetlight’s 2021 Poetry Contest
The Pepper Jar
………………….……….for Dad
Guided by the moon, you germinate
seeds. Transplanting infant plants
well after the final frost. Fostering
them. Withhold water before the harvest
to deepen their flavor, reaping a basket
of red fruit adorned with green hats.
Summer ’09: your last labor
of horticultural love.
You lay the nightshades to dry
under the August sun, discarding
the soft bodies. Tending
never ends with the harvest.
Two weeks later, their plump, glossy skin
withered as a crone’s. Drying, you explain,
animates heat and sweetness. Gloved
and masked, you remove their stems,
coarsely grind their bodies, fill glass half
pints with flakes that fire sauces and stews.
You warn me not to get too close. I pay
with eyes that burn red and run all night.
This evening, I flavor my puttanesca
with a pinch of your red magic, salted
with my tears. Each subtraction multiplies
the loss. You’ve been gone five years.
I ration what remains, fooling
myself that I’ll never hit bottom.
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