Brigitte Goetze

Halved pears, poached in cinnamon-rich pinot gris,
carrying creamy peaks, traversed
by rivulets, chocolaty dark, silenced
tongues, tired from exploring books.

Frozen corn, enlivened by hot rice,
mingled with chilies, bacon, and cheese
in the tight embrace of a soft tortilla, seduced
a newly declared diet into abandonment.

Dill pickles and apples, cut down to size, accessory to wine
herring, soused in sweet cream for several hours,
then dished out over hot potatoes, triggered a dejected
”Was it something we said?”

Watery merlot cider, victim of a bad fall,
simply too weak to make good
drink, uplifted by a generous helping of spirit—
more punch than a Californian wine cooler.

Sour cherry juice, too rebellious to jell, never mind
what was added, served as a delightful, astringent
topping on chocolate chip ice cream, nobody guessed
this syrup was not intentional.