Arlene taught me to identify the maple-like leaves,
the umbrella of engine-red berries, hanging plump
and shiny with ripeness—to collect the berries in fall,
simmer them down to a sauce, add some sweet to offset the sour.
I didn’t make the sauce for me, I made it for Arlene,
for being a Vermonter, for praying in the church of hunters
and gatherers. In summer I’d spot the viburnum by their leaves,
and return to harvest in fall, collecting bags of the fruit
I’d hope to not squish on the way home. The cooking
was messy. More seed than meat, the berries smelled
like dead mouse. The sugar helped mask the odor,
but not enough. While milling the gooey reduction,
the seeds would roll and scrape the blades. Two quarts
of berries would yield a pint of the sauce I didn’t love.
What I did love—the collecting, Vermont, Arlene.
I still remember the stickiness and the smell.
I don’t remember when I stopped making the sauce.
Today, walking a trail in Scotland, ripe berries abound.
I capture the bright red of them with my phone,
to honor Arlene, who taught me viburnum,
who coaxed me into making the sauce.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 4.
Carla Schwartz’s poems have appeared in The Practicing Poet and her collections Signs of Marriage, Mother, One More Thing, and Intimacy with the Wind. Carla Schwartz received the 2023 New England Poetry Club E.E. Cummings Prize. Carla Schwartz lives half the time in the greater Boston area, and half the time on an unbridged island in Lake Winnipesaukee. Schwartz is passionate about cycling, Nordic skiing, hiking, fresh water long distance swimming, paddle-boarding, pedal kayaking, reading, and gardening. Learn more at https://carlapoet.com, or on all social media @cb99videos.
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