Challenged by a writer in Ireland to use
the word aubergine in a poem, I demurred:
too fancy, too French.  Americans are more earthy,
using eggplant, something hot and heavy
you can hold in your palm. You can strip off
its bruise-black skin, let it slip into something 
more comfortable:  a sauté pan of bubbling oil.
Let it meld into a mélange with tomatoes, onions
zucchini.  Not courgettes.  Here, in Matisse’s 
oils, they lounge precariously in their satin slips,
little odalisques of the table, almost sliding off
the red cloth with its cream-colored curves.
The room pulsates in patterns, floral motifs
everywhere.  The eye doesn’t know where
to look.  Perspective is askew; we feel uneasy,
off-kilter.  So let’s put our feet back
on solid ground and consider the eggplant.
It could be bitter if not cooked properly.
But salt it first, then simmer on low
all afternoon, releasing its sweetness,
reminding us how summer is fleeting;
reminding us our days in the sun are brief.