Oh Butternut!
Who could say what grows under your awkward bulbousness,
that thin exterior the color of an old Barbie doll torso,
that hollow yet hallowed center,
until your flesh was split.
Oh Butternut, who knew you contained the essence
of a star crystallized, as well as the most coveted
liquid in the universe, your fragrance
steeped in centuries of early morning mist.
Oh Butternut, who knew the myriad consorts you might favor
in the name of flavor.
The spicy Italian Sausage with his garlicky breath and Asiago
aftershave,
the sautéed Chanterelle drunk with wine, sly and praising
of your tenderness.
Oh Butternut, only you could tame the narcissistic Gorgonzola,
wrapping him in ravioli, napping him with cream.
You, Blistered Chard, toasted Pine Nut, what a manage a trois you make!
And oh, Butternut, the sacrifice you make,
your blossoms before the fruit, a last splash of eros,
stuffed with black beans, chilies, urfa biber,
as September wanes, turning us back towards summer
as though it might never end.
This is the sauteed Italian Black Kale with toasted Pine Nuts, some baked Chicken chunks and the Most Honorable Roasted Butternut. I cannot say any more about it. Let us pull up chairs, enjoin our forks and eat.
