Key Lime Pie: With Apologies to Henry James

Key Lime Pie

With Apologies to Henry James

As Harold Oates held the evening in his mind,

The special flavor of the pie possessed him.

He knew the down on Melissa Crane's arm, knew

The down where moral gentlemen knew not down.

He knew the crook in her voice as she would say:

"Have you ordered, dear?" He clutched the qualities

Of the pie as insurance of his sanity.

In the kitchen Ramos Jones, a very black cook,

Prepared the object of Harold's mind: all were ready--

The condensed milk (low-fat); the sugar, eggs, crust...

Ramos had performed this production for 27 under-paid years.

Oven hot. Kitchen in the proper state of disarray--

Ramos was ready to mix. Mix and re-mix. Mix and wonder.

Harold waited, saved by his vision of the pie.

Harold's mind ate the preliminary dishes:

The salad, the breads heated to accept the hard real butter,

The fish soup, cooled just right and spiced with basil.

And the lamb, its bones still witnessing its tragic little life.

Ah, but it was the pie that made the meal.

When Melissa Crane entered, she seemed polished,

A car just emerging from the car-wash.

Men at their meals perked up to look.

The mare, thought Harold, relates to stallions.

A white hand held her small black rhinestone purse, and

As she sat the purse vanished in the folds of her great dress.

"Have you ordered, dear?" She said, her voice crooking.

Harold said: "No," and he took deeper refuge in pie.

It will have the color of unknown sea fishes,

It will have crust which I shall crush with this spoon.

It will singe my body with its strange perfume.

I will lie naked in my mind's afternoons, he thought,

Relishing this pie. Nothing SHE does or says here,

In this rarefied niche of Miami life will matter

When measured against the standard of the pie.

James Bolner, Sr.

Baton Rouge, August, 1997