Poem with a Recipe for Beets
by Bryan Thomas Daly
Place one sliced can of beets in a metal bowl with enough
Italian dressing to cover, then add a splash
of balsamic vinegar. Prepare this recipe for a long time
by being obviously unhappy.
Place the bowl in the fridge, uncovered. Allow your children
to watch you like an Atlantic, as if you have
a choice, as if you don’t notice them watching you constantly
for an swell of anger that might crest up
the way a small wave sometimes precedes a big one. The kind
your husband, when he was a surfer,
would see and say way out, meaning look, meaning, see this thing
before it is too late. Already notice how your children love
to copy only him, how they call it out even about small waves—
even in still water. In the fridge the beets
have been becoming cold. Show them now for a turn
how you love something immodestly because it is easy
and yours, how you wag your head at any bite, mmmm mmmm
mmmm-ing at the counter,
forgetting how they watch from around the corner as if it were
strange to see you love
as if you weren’t also there, in the water, among the waves,
way out.