The Juicer

Hot purple, the whole house smelled of it.
The giant pot, rust-dusted, gleaming proud,
and crowded round the counter, rows on rows
of fresh-filled, heat-sealed jars, their cooling tops
each popping loud, a witness song of stops
so strong the juice would keep for years to come.
I’d grip a towel-wrapped jar in my small hands,
Mom tipped the pot, the boiling juice ran in.
Mom always, in her hopeful teaching, said:
It wasn’t wine that Jesus drank, but juice.
So, as a child, I thought I knew the Boy,
whose harvest home, like mine, of purple smelled;
who gripped hot jars while Mother filled them up,
some stray drops breaking darkly on the floor.

Benjamin Wright will be graduating from Brigham Young University in April 2021 with a BS in Exercise & Wellness, and a Creative Writing minor. He is in the process of applying to MFA programs around the United States to continue his studies of poetry.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.