Tasty Research Poetry
Blueberry
by Diane Lockward Deep-blue hue of the body, silvery bloom on its skin. Undersized runt of a fruit, like something that failed to thrive, dented top a fontanel. Lopsided globe. A temperate zone. Tiny paradox, tart and sweet, homely but elegant afloat in sugar and cream, baked in a pie, a cobbler, a muffin. The power of blue. Number one antioxidant fruit, bantam-weight champ in the fight against urinary tract infections, best supporting actor in a fruit salad. No peeling, coring or cutting. Lay them out on a counter, strands of blue pearls. Pop one at a time, like M&M's, into your mouth. Be a glutton and stuff in a handful, your tongue, lips, chin dyed blue, as if feasting on indigo. Fruit of the state of New Jersey. Favorite fruit of my mother. Sundays she scooped them into pancake batter, poured circles onto the hot greased griddle, sizzled them gold and blue, doused with maple syrup. This is what I want to remember: my mother and me, our quilted robes, hair in curlers, that kitchen, that table, plates stacked with pancakes, blueberries sparkling like gemstones, blue stars in a gold sky, the universe in reverse, the two of us eating blueberry pancakes. "Blueberry" by Diane Lockward, from What Feeds Us. © Wind Publications, 2006. |
To a Head of Lettuce
Amy Gerstler May I venture to address you, vegetal friend? A lettuce is no less than me, so I respect you, though it’s also true I may make a salad of you, later. That’s how we humans roll. Our species is blowing it, bigtime, as you no doubt know, dependent as you are on water and soil we humans pollute. You’re a crisphead, an iceberg lettuce, scorned in days of yore for being mostly fiber and water. But new research claims you’ve gotten a bad rap, that you’re more nutritious than we knew. Juicy and beautiful, your leaves can be used as tortillas. If you peer through a lettuce leaf, the view takes on the translucent green of the newest shoots. Sitting atop your pile, next to heaps of radicchio, you do seem a living head, a royal personage who should be paid homage. I am not demanding to be reassured. I just want to know what you know, what you think your role is—and hear what you have to say about suffering long denied, the wisdom of photosynthesis, stages of growth you’ve passed through. I can almost hear your voice as I pay for you at the cash register, a slightly gravely sound, like Kendrick Lamar’s voice, or early Bob Dylan, both singers of gruff poetic truth. Nothing less was expected from you, sister lettuce, nothing less. Copyright © 2017 Amy Gerstler. |