Take a pinch of salt, two dustings
of pepper, an abundance
of fresh dill, finely chopped,
a riot of paprika.
Cast them over the mince,
your hands clouds.
Knead this dilapidated flesh
into bodies, ready to be folded
in the embrace of vine leaves.
Whose hands picked them, whose
pickled them in jars so hefty
you barely manage their weight
all the way back from the market?
Not so much the weight
of the glass or the tightly packed
rolls just this side of wilted,
but that of your grandmother’s
turbaned hair, her shapeless dress
swishing over bent knees,
the swiftness of her fingers
at work, shaping the leaves
sweet new hearts, the readiness
on the tip of your tongue.
This weight you press
into the stuffed leaves
as you layer them neatly
from the bottom of the pot,
the way of thousands of stuffed
vine leaves before them, the way
of hundreds of pairs of hands.
Boil until tender, if it was not
tender before.
