My birthday was on Wednesday, and as these things tend to go, I spent the day flexing my sentimental muscles a bit. You see, this is one of those milestone birthdays where you leave one decade behind and enter another, so the time is even riper for reflection. And there are things to say. And there are brownies from one of my favorite poets.
I remember the evening well. I was sitting with my parents and boyfriend on the shaded patio of an Italian restaurant in Santa Barbara. This was one of those "let's take you out to dinner to be sure you're eating well" meals parents often take their children to when they're still in college. By this time I had been cooking for myself out of necessity for at least a year, but wasn't the most adventurous when it came to trying new dishes. When I scanned a menu, once my eye paused on Pasta al Pomodoro, the decision was made. But this particular evening, I couldn't shake the price. Although I wasn't paying for it, fourteen dollars for a bowl seemed somewhat unreasonable considering I could buy a bag of spaghetti, two pounds of tomatoes, some basil and cheese for less than $10 and have multiple servings. Suddenly, my mentality shifted as I began to realize that my favorite restaurant meals were achievable in my own kitchen.
The first time you read this poem, you might peek underneath your own dinner table to see "what vegetable leviathan extends beneath." The second time, though, imagination fully open, you'll catch the subtle nuances.
Around one dinner table sits a "leaf on a plate like a wing," almost weightless, until we learn what would occur should it fly away. I sense the speaker reaching for something beyond her own existence. In one moment she remains in the physical world, bringing a small fork to her lips with pieces of vinegar-coated lettuce, but in the same moment a conversation is occurring within her soul, recognizing life's fragility.