Fog Catcher

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Brine seeps through my skin, its scent 

steamed bacalhau as she laid it on a bed 

of purple potatoes, onions, bell peppers 

doused in azeite de oliva before surrendering 

the dish to fire and brick. Her Azores infused 

each layer: tubers rooted in volcanic soil; 

nightshades lured to bloom under a quilt 

of brume; olives bled to liquid gold; 

cod carved from bone. A recipe smudged 

and strung between what was and what could be, 

handed down to me. Legacy is scraps 

of what’s left behind.

                                                    A version of this poem was first published by The Mississippi Review