A MEMORY OF BASHO IN MY MOTHER'S
BITTER ORANGE RIND DESSERT  

My mother asked me to look over her pot
on the stove so it wouldn’t burn while she
gave the girls a bath. I could hear them

frolicking in the sudsy water, splashing.
I peer into my mother’s pot of bitter orange
rind dessert so that it doesn’t burn. Bubbles

form and pop on the surface. I check the heat,
making sure to stir. As I do so, orange aroma
and sugar rises to my nostrils. I think of Basho

by the river’s edge. It is spring time. Budding
plum trees everywhere, and their smell makes
the poet want to jump in for a swim. Dew

forms droplets on the surface of grassy slopes.
A deer smells honeysuckle in the air. A swan
swims away toward the light, this vanishing

point at the bottom of my mother’s pot;
I hear the moans of my own delight deep
in my throat. I taste her dessert and say this

poem under my breath.