Melanzane 

After Peter Balakian’s “Eggplant”

So much wrapped                                                                                                      
in the leaves of stuffed cabbage,

the sweetness of late-season love apples, and slow-roasted romas.

My laptop played “Eggplant” in the kitchen

while I sliced mad fruit — 

listening to the mussel stock brew —

listening to Balakian’s voice 

journey his purpled mood.

I cried at the white dishes on his table —

how the moon looked in that part of the world.

Sunday, I travelled five hours each way for Dad’s birthday,
carefully refrigerating the stock for the soup

there were no platters at his house anymore

they’ve been given to neighbours,
and grandchildren who threw them away

before they went overseas, and made no plans to return.

Though I arranged the prawns and mirin drenched peaches 

for the guests on a plate from next door,

Dad did not wait for me

to ladle his lunch. 

He used his nonagenarian hands.