Eggplant by Peter Balakian

Eggplant

I loved the white moon circles

and the purple halos,

on a plate as the salt sweat them.

The oil in the pan smoked like bad

days in the Syrian desert—

when a moon stayed all day—

when morning was a purple

elegy for the last friend seen—

when the fog of the riverbank

rose like a holy ghost.

My mother made those white moons sizzle

in some egg wash and salt—

some parsley appeared

from the garden

and summer evenings

came with no memory

but the table with white dishes.

Shining aubergine—black-skinned

beauty, bitter apple.

We used our hands.