ryan scariano

Pickling Song

She’s washing Mason jars, cutting dill,

scrubbing cucumbers, bringing the brine

to a boil. It’s a process. A short season’s

worth of salt. A sea of apple cider vinegar.

She’s hearing the song. I peel the garlic

from her mother’s garden. Fat, earth

encrusted bulbs cling to thick fibrous necks.

The largest cloves slip from their papery skins

polished white jade wet with green light.

She’s puzzled the cucumbers into their shells,

and now, in flows her brine. I twist on the lids,

flip the jars and line them up along the edge

of the great countertop. The hum of an ancient

mantra presses through the half-smile

of her lips. I can almost make out a melody.