Dish of Mashed Peas
Some people are not destined for happiness,
and I may be one of them.
You see, in certain parts of the world where
I have been and now live,
at least in my dreams, happiness is only
granted to a woman
who leaves a dish of mashed peas out in
the moonlight overnight.
But superstition does not name what moon
phase or if one must
eat the peas. Instructions too vague.
Peas uneaten. Moon dark.
No happiness yet. I’d ask my nana if she
were still here,
but she was the one who gauged oven heat
with a bent elbow
and said happiness was to bake a cake
until done.
Copyright © 2018 Susan Terris. Reprinted with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Autumn 2018.
Susan Terris
Susan Terris was born in St. Louis, Missouri. She has a B.A. in English Literature from Wellesley College and an M.A. from San Francisco State University. She is the author of several books of poetry, most recently Present Tense (Marsh Hawk Press, 2019). She is a freelance editor of book-length poetry manuscripts, and hosts a series of weekend workshops taught by David St. John. She lives in San Francisco, California.