1. Sweet Gherkins
By Trisha Barry Copyright 2003
She could've survived, maybe -- my mom,
(Long Island girl) in the South--
though our North Georgia neighbors remained
suspicious of us, “foreigners and all.” My sister and I
with our “Jewish shoes.” Mom studied Foxfire,
trying to be one with the Turpens
and the Yoders, down the road,
where our horses, when they got out, would go.
We have your horses in our garden.
Yes ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am.
My daughters will be right over.
Or the call from the Baptist preacher: I believe
your horses are in the cemetery, eating the flowers.
Mom made pickles -- sour, sour gherkins.
It took her a long time to find the proper mix
of sweet and tart, her recipe
for being far from family, among God-
fearing folk, who'd whisper and point
if she had a gin & tonic-- her a teacher and all.
She had to learn the suck and seal of edges,
her sweet gherkins floating in rural-town
vinegar and refined white sugar.