I chop off the leaves and slice away the stem
(incorrect—“leave an inch of green”), 
scrub away the soil (wrong—“gently clean”) 
from mouse-tailed beets, prepare them 
for the pot as potatoes (NO)—it would seem.
 
But see, I had to have borscht! Two weeks 
in Russia and I loved the rooty soup. 
I found a recipe. First ingredient: cooked beets—
which sounded mundane, rather easy to do. 
 
So I peel them before boiling (not the way) 
and cut them into chunks (culinary slaughter) 
before dropping them, bleeding, into hot water. 
My hands, the knife, the sink, the spill and spray 
around the pot and on the floor, the splatter
 
a Kandinsky stroke, a revolution of red,  
a manifesto in beet juice, Motherland in breadth. 
I’m filled with a kind of revulsion, a dread
that I might be caught in this scene of veggie death.
 
My babushka-less efforts continue with herbs 
and broth, lemon and onions, egg and tomato. 
Later the soup slurps acceptably to my guests though
just the sour cream and dill topping likely serves
to coax the borscht virgins to empty their bowls. 
 
But oh, the color! My borscht brims with crimson,
its earthy blush a peasant song for the eyes.
So what if I learn later how it should have been done?
For risk of rosy loss, would compliance be wise? 
                        

Here—let me feed you my poems 
home-made from my mind, 
words still plumped like hot raisins, 
the butter-fat thoughts
still liquid and pliant, 
the imagery rising like cinnamon steam 
to enter your head, 
fill all the hollows with spice.
 
Come. Eat them now 
and they’ll become you.
Turn them slowly on your tongue, 
warm morsels of sweet-salty phrase, 
insight piquant, nutty delight 
that even as you chew 
brings the slightest of smiles 
to your slick-glistening lips. 
 
And if not, then just tell me.
My recipe box is full; 
the kitchen light is on.
                        

We may never have known the culprits existed 
were it not for those baggies of craft clay biscuits
(just flour, salt and color) placed for a later date, 
in the cellar to wait:
One bag of a dozen dainty hearts, 
curves crenellate, and one of six large ones, 
cardiac pink, petrified by the oven.
 
For what I noticed, after weeks or more
were three large hearts on the floor 
strangely strewn. Retracing to the store
in the box that held them, I found 
the bags chewed open, unbound! 
The little hearts were vanished, all. 
The big ones, well, just too big for the haul.
We set out traps 
               and then…six snaps! 
Our secret boarders were broken and sacked.
 
But I can’t stop imagining the little scene unfold
in the dark on the cold cellar floor: Hero-bold, 
grappling with thin, rosy hands, Mr. Mouse, so clever,
whiskers a-twitch as he tries with all the might of mice  
(at least thrice) to deliver back to the missus, the score,
his prize: the biggest valentine ever!