House built of beath 

by Marge Piercy

Words plain as pancakes syruped with endearment 
Simple as potatoes homely as cottage cheese.  

 Wet as onions, dry as salt, Slow as honey,  
fast as seltzer, my raisin, my sultana, my apricot love, my artichoke, furry one, my pineapple.

  
 I love you daily as milk, I love you nightly 
 as aromatic port.

 The words trail a bitter slime  
like slugs, then in the belly warm like 
 cabbage borscht.
 The words are hung out on the  line,
sheets for the wind to bleach.   
The words are simmering slowly on the back  
burner like a good stew.  Words are kindling  
in the woodstove

Even the quilt at night is stuffed with word down.

When we are alone the walls sing and even the cats  
talk but only in Yiddish.  

When we are alone we make love in deeds.

And then in words.

And then in food