My first year married
I brought to the feast
a barely-there pumpkin pie,
tendered it to the aunts,
who could, every one, build a pie
rich and thick, pie with attitude.

Seven months pregnant, I was
not much fun in my big brown dress.
Why not scarlet or sky blue? Why not
more eggs in the pie filling?
I didn't know yet that
I'd been called to feed the world,

didn't know the kitchen as shrine
where any offering matters.
Nourish the family. Bring pie
to our table. Sing pumpkin songs.
That first pie, every pie,
is life homemade. Taste it.