Tonight
at the pale yellow counter
I stood peeling figs my father picked,
and listened to my mother’s conversation
about a friend long dead.
I remember that friend,
she would have enjoyed peeling figs, too.
She had beautiful arms
and her hilarious stories
might pass the time.
Perhaps her mother or uncle liked peeling figs,
and their grandfather before them.
The fuzzy skins tear so easily
from the pale fragrant interior
work that offers
such simple sensual pleasure.

I can see my mother
on a warm summer day
in a sleeveless
yellow plaid blouse with white snaps
spooning steaming figs
into sterile jars
each with its own slice of lemon.

Perhaps someone in Italy
is peeling figs for breakfast
do you think?
and someone in Persia
126 years ago is doing the same
you get what I mean?

a sacred sticky ritual
this preparation of food for others
a ceremony of love
a ceremony of satisfying
from my hands to your mouth
from fathers and mothers and friends and strangers
to your pleasure and well-being…