Apricot Perigee, the poem

I wanted to share a poem I wrote that inspired the name of my Substack. It's apricot season and as I just made apricot jam, I thought it was good timing.

	
Apricot Perigee	

Partially eclipsed,					
between the plums and peaches, mounds
of curated stone fruit, lies the slighted apricot.
Dull on the tongue, skins of damp paper, minimal		
scent. Nevertheless, I lug home sixty pounds.

Sensitive to the touch, bruises are inevitable, a result
of small unseen collisions, lunar consequences like Kepler
or Stevinus. Freed from the box, I scatter the apricots 
across metal trays. Hundreds of orange spheres side	
by side. They change by the hour—blushed cheeks
appear, pulp softens. I rotate and inspect them as I pass
by throughout the day. Velvet against my fingers.
I await the ones that lag. 		 

I reach up to the rack overhead. My hands grasp a bronze
handle of my tarnished pot. Copper, with hammered sloped
sides, a necessary jam indulgence. For months an ornament
hanging, now summoned. A knife orbits an apricot, a twist
to open. The pit pops out. Halves, quarters, and sugar
in the pot, warm to simmered orange moons. I coax
with vanilla bean and bright lemon. A laced aroma releases.					
This is not the churchly stained-glass purple of Luther’s plums,
blackberry’s rapid boil, an effervescent noble chatter, or sliced
Bartlett pears melted into translucent gold. This is a lustered
orange. Diamonds suspended in a vibrant syrup. Before long, 
bubbles plod and I dare not go far. Frequent stirs are needed.
The wooden spoon pushes through the molten compote
and reveals glimpses of copper beneath. 

I stare into the pot and wait.  

For many years I was unexceptional. Satisfied with
C pluses in history, one of the last to cross the finish line
in the 880-meter race, no dreams to be a teacher or
an astronaut. But I knew I didn’t want to live in a row
of houses with short asphalt driveways, work eight-hour
days with an hour for lunch, or rarely fly in an airplane.
Eventually I discovered I wanted to ride a subway, jammed
among a disparate constellation of strangers, linked
by the simple movement on and off a train. I wanted		
to take a cab up Park Avenue, the median filled with
tulips, spring night air pushing in the open windows.
I wanted to sit on the steps of The Met after gazing
at the Temple of Dendur. I wanted to drive	
over a bridge into a tunnel of fog, to spend time
surrounded by pastures and fields with more lambs
and cattle than people. It also turned out I needed to
whisk ethereal Champagne sabayons, pipe meringue
over Baked Alaskas, watch for sugar’s turn from gritty
sand to caramel’s deep amber, and remove scented
pans of gingerbread from the oven. I needed to be
part of an eclectic group, who while preparing feasts
for others, eat standing up out of stainless-steel bowls.
And hidden so deeply I barely heard it, I wanted my name
in the Library of Congress.  

The flame turned off, the apricots are still.
Jam lavished across toasted yeasty sourdough.
Each bite savored—tart, buttery, sweet. I ladle
jam into glass jars, wide mouth and smooth.
Flat lids, external rings, a steaming water bath
until radiant half pints line the kitchen counter
like Christo’s Gates in Central Park. In time,
jam, labelled and double stacked, fills the shelves.
My fingertips drift and arc across the glass.
I turn off the light and pause. The jars glint
in the dark sky of the pantry.