Nina Soifer is a freelance food writer and a student
at the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey
where her writing has won awards in poetry and
creative nonfiction. Her poems have appeared or
are forthcoming in The Literary Review, Alimentum,
Chickenpinata, Thema, Mudfish, Sheila Bender’s
Writing It Real and Calliope, a publication of
Women Who Write. Nina cooked professionally as
an off-premise caterer for over twenty years in
addition to owning a gourmet prepared-food shop
and bakery. She and her family live near the shore
in South Jersey.
at the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey
where her writing has won awards in poetry and
creative nonfiction. Her poems have appeared or
are forthcoming in The Literary Review, Alimentum,
Chickenpinata, Thema, Mudfish, Sheila Bender’s
Writing It Real and Calliope, a publication of
Women Who Write. Nina cooked professionally as
an off-premise caterer for over twenty years in
addition to owning a gourmet prepared-food shop
and bakery. She and her family live near the shore
in South Jersey.
NINA Soifer
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Before My Mother’s Collapse
This morning, it occurs to my mother
that Janis Joplin is coming for lunch.
She has it all planned out. The house
is tidy enough, and the peonies
on the kitchen table are still intact.
She says the recipe she clipped
from Wednesday’s food section
is perfect for the occasion: green pea soup
with butter dumplings. She’ll bring
out the Wild Turkey, make
extra strong coffee. She tells me
to look for the old Bessie Smith record,
wash the dirty ashtrays, find
her damned cigarettes. When she
fumbles through her sweater drawer
searching for her shoes, she assures
me that Miss Joplin hasn’t died,
the newscaster’s mistaken. She’ll
be here for lunch in a couple of hours.
Indeed, I say, as we get ready.
Remembering Blossom Dearie
April 28, 1926 – February 7, 2009
So, here I am at the Skylark Club, a machinist
from Hoboken itching for a one-night stand
in the city, and I suggest we get some drinks
after the show, chew the fat until the bar closes.
I pretend to know something about the tonality
of a song, but she’s talking about Manhattan, how it’s
a soulful place, stirs up the music inside her,
how sometimes it makes her mad. She prefers
Paris. When she speaks to me with that pixie voice,
I assume that she wants me, but she’s not interested
in sex. Instead, we dance to When Fools Rush In,
one of her favorite Johnny Mercer tunes.
Because I’m not used to rejection, I ask
her again to go home with me. All she does
is light a cigarette and begin to hum, as if to say
Easy now buster, my name is Blossom.
Sculptor with Nude Model
Even though he looks like Gregory Peck,
I have the urge to slice him open
with an Exacto knife, fold back the skin,
rework him from the inside.
Why not try a newly shaped tongue,
a more pliable jaw? I could mold
his heart another way, widen his girth
and maneuver the spine, elongate
his arms so he can reach farther.
Then, if I ask him to adjust
his position, he could shift more easily.
I have always failed at persuading
a man to change. But, this time
this one is clay in my hands.
This morning, it occurs to my mother
that Janis Joplin is coming for lunch.
She has it all planned out. The house
is tidy enough, and the peonies
on the kitchen table are still intact.
She says the recipe she clipped
from Wednesday’s food section
is perfect for the occasion: green pea soup
with butter dumplings. She’ll bring
out the Wild Turkey, make
extra strong coffee. She tells me
to look for the old Bessie Smith record,
wash the dirty ashtrays, find
her damned cigarettes. When she
fumbles through her sweater drawer
searching for her shoes, she assures
me that Miss Joplin hasn’t died,
the newscaster’s mistaken. She’ll
be here for lunch in a couple of hours.
Indeed, I say, as we get ready.
Remembering Blossom Dearie
April 28, 1926 – February 7, 2009
So, here I am at the Skylark Club, a machinist
from Hoboken itching for a one-night stand
in the city, and I suggest we get some drinks
after the show, chew the fat until the bar closes.
I pretend to know something about the tonality
of a song, but she’s talking about Manhattan, how it’s
a soulful place, stirs up the music inside her,
how sometimes it makes her mad. She prefers
Paris. When she speaks to me with that pixie voice,
I assume that she wants me, but she’s not interested
in sex. Instead, we dance to When Fools Rush In,
one of her favorite Johnny Mercer tunes.
Because I’m not used to rejection, I ask
her again to go home with me. All she does
is light a cigarette and begin to hum, as if to say
Easy now buster, my name is Blossom.
Sculptor with Nude Model
Even though he looks like Gregory Peck,
I have the urge to slice him open
with an Exacto knife, fold back the skin,
rework him from the inside.
Why not try a newly shaped tongue,
a more pliable jaw? I could mold
his heart another way, widen his girth
and maneuver the spine, elongate
his arms so he can reach farther.
Then, if I ask him to adjust
his position, he could shift more easily.
I have always failed at persuading
a man to change. But, this time
this one is clay in my hands.
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