Rhubarb


To check on your rhubarb
I tuck my sharp knife
double-wrapped in plastic bags
under the bungee of my paddle board
and head out to your dock.
Summer is soup right now—
hot, viscous. I find the rhubarb—
great stalks as thick as my wrist
long as my thighs. I pull out my knife
to make the clean cuts.
I know why I cannot restrain myself—
I’ve had your rhubarb on my mind
ever since I last summer—
your gift—so large, so plentiful.
Don’t think I’m crazy talking to a dead man.
Don’t think I’m stealing what would go to waste.
I’m hoping I honor your life,
to taste the sour in the pie.

Applesauce


How crisp the apples that resist the knife.
How sweet the pale yellow flesh to bite.
How the apple, smaller than my fist
pretends at symmetry when I slice.
One seed split by my cut peers
out like a new tooth from the core.
I steady the apple half and dice
think of how each piece each wedge
of flesh fits together like a puzzle
and when I pour water in to simmer
sprinkle cinnamon from a jar
without taking time to measure
I think how imprecise this process
is—the making of the sauce—
no matter the number of apples
no matter how much water—
while I wait for the cook down.
For how long? Who cares?
For this moment I cover
then simmer
then mill.

Filmmaker and photographer Carla Schwartz’s poems have been widely published, including in
The Practicing Poet (Diane Lockward, Ed) and in her collections “Signs of Marriage” and
“Intimacy with the Wind.” Her CB99videos youtube channel has 2,400,000+ views. Find her
at carlapoet.com, wakewiththesun.blogspot.com, or on Twitter, or Instagram @cb99videos.
Recent publications appear in The Ear, Channel, The Poet’s Touchstone, Ibbetson Street,
Paterson Literary Review, The MacGuffin, and Leon.

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