A flashlight shone on the caves of Lascaux or Altamira
could not have disclosed a richer chronicle
in Paleolithic polychrome
Daubs of olive and oxblood and ochre –
Do these represent bison? Irish elk?
Hardened syrup spills and frosting smears -
Equine stampedes?
Sauce leakage blooming fungus –
The rare long homed rhinoceros?
To wipe these walls of their history
with baking soda and vinegar would be desecration
No less than an epic natural disaster
could have compelled her to unseal these stale
inner chambers — to spelunk
and comb this archaeologist’s boon
(in fact — a hurricane
or more specifically — its power outage consequence
of several days accrued)
An ancient civilization’s fossilized artifacts
on outer shelves — two identical jars of molasses
one with an inch remaining — one with an inch missing
more enigmatic since black strap
as a baking ingredient was heretofore unknown
Three jars of hoisin sauce
each of distinctly different provenance
the contents uniformly two thirds sacrificed
to some burnt offering –
each container one third festering with mold
and lovingly hoarded for hungry ghosts
or for a future opportunity
to time travel to a past where the contents
of all three can be combined and
restored to freshness
– and by the same Orwellian sci-fi logic –
the collection of remnant condiment fragments
lurking in their oils and brines — sun dried tomatoes
calamatas — roasted peppers — artichoke hearts –
Oh — Ozymandias of hors d’oeuvres
stretched far away across the linoleum!
In the freezer door a few loose wrapped sweets
remain from the ritual where initiate shamans
dressed in hideous costumes — rattling gourd bowls
to frighten the spirits of All Hallows
and demand morsels of tribute
(the poet’s health conscious strategy
to buy the ones she finds repulsive)
and yes — here they remain — tootsie rolls
too stale to hand out again this year
yet not sufficiently decomposed to jettison
Behind the sour wafting boggy cartons
of melted ice cream
a tiny robins egg blue treasure box half despoiled
of four artisinally handcrafted chocolate truffles
in tribute to the matrimonial ritual
of her offspring and his spouse
whose child is fast approaching
his second year milestone
Behind this — a tool encrusted in murky sludge
a disturbingly gleaming
and hollow syringe
revealed in memory merely
as the henna applicator preserved
from another ritual – this time to decorate
with mehndi the fruitful belly
of her daughter’s pending second birth
also two seasons of moons in the past
And resembling limp gray
decomposing slugs
a thawing half banana
in each of five ziplock bags
always one more piece remaining
than visiting grandchildren can gnaw –
though never fresh enough for the next visit
nor memorable enough to add to a smoothie
Then back to the lower chamber –
the shelf of liquids
sediments long since distilled into particulate matter –
the enigma of milk without nipples
the soy milk un-organic — the rice milk flavorless
the cashew nut milk unpalatable –the almond milk unsuitable
or unfashionable — yet all essential
when entertaining the quixotic demands
of the visiting vegan progeny
But here — far beyond the marvel
of ancient Hittite honey conserved
in wax sealed clay jars –
her eternal staples hum
with the obdurate memory echo of the refrigerator motor –
Sri Racha Rooster Hot Sauce
Chivers Ginger Preserve — Aged Parmigiano Reggiano
generic crunchy peanut butter — Kikoman Lite Soy Sauce
inspired by these she hopes to endure
for seven days — seven years –
seven times seven millennia
at least in verse
