Bruschetta - Sarah Dahl

The lazy susan in the corner cabinet of my childhood kitchen was blonde wood,

smooth and slick,

like your hair in the shower after you run conditioner through it.


There were nicks in places

where my brother and I had fought as children,

and faint, barely perceptible stains,

from when I’d spilt milk

or cracked an egg the wrong way.


Sometimes when I was bored I liked to spin

the circular shelves of the lazy susan

round and round,

slowly, laboriously, then quickly—

speeding up so that things fell out.


I could take things, too,

that were never missed:

plastic cups of apple sauce or pudding,

liquid food

which I would savor slowly.


But there was one thing I never touched—

the aging, blood-red jar of bruschetta

in the back corner

of the top shelf.

It was a foreign immigrant in my kitchen,

and I examined the chunks of mashed tomatoes,

and the flecks of green spices

with curious wonder.


The glass jar was a microscope into a mysterious world

full of long-dead plants and decaying vegetables.


But glass often distorts things,

so I can’t be sure

of I was really looking at.