I wonder, have I birthed a tortured child?
In this sacred city, can I show her joy?
Martyred saints bleed on museum walls.
She suffers through the lanced torsos,
the satanic worlds. In the restaurant one night,
eating sole, boiled potatoes, salad, I offer her
a passport to distraction, an art lesson, perhaps.
I take a stainless-steel soup spoon, the large
European kind, place salt, pepper, three parts
oil and one of red-wine vinegar into the bowl.
I stir the ingredients with a fork.
It is the least bitterness of the day.

Ronnie Hess is a poet who lives in Madison, the author of five chapbooks and two culinary travel guides. She raises chickens in her backyard.