<< Poetry Index
My mother's fresh-baked apple pies,
hot, aromatic, when I was 15

When what I died for
was your searching kisses

Foaming juice fresh-squeezed
from home grown carrots

fine Napa Valley Chenin Blanc,
draped with gold medals

Dining Italian by the ocean,
the sun setting between ravioli and spumoni

Fresh caught high mountain Golden trout,
rolled in cornmeal
curling in the iron skillet at 7 a.m.

I am making myself fat.
Food is a lousy substitute for love.

Infinity Limited Magazine Winter 1993
©1993 I.B. Nelson