Evening meal


Come, pump blood into my borscht,
heart-shaped beet,
fang-rooted Romanian blood-bulb,
vampire of vegetables.
I sink my teeth into you.
Warm this cold twilight.





Wheat Harvest


What I wouldn’t give
to climb up the side of my uncle’s truck again 
on a hot summer wheat-harvest day
to lean over the side board 
and let the combine hopper
pour its payload 
through my spread fingers.

To take a kernel into my mouth 
and bite into it like Dad 
to test for moisture,
to know we had the perfect day,
but still worry about finishing 
before the evening storms 
that always hurry after heat like this.

To cart jugs of iced tea and Dixie cups
from house to field for the men 
and to be a little part 
of that great harvest scene again.

Or to watch Grandpa on a Saturday afternoon
small ax in hand,
select the chickens for Sunday dinner,
to help Grandma pluck on the porch.

It’s not just the being ten and innocent again.
It’s to know again where things come from, 
that someone’s grandma fed the chickens I eat,
that a real human being touched the wheat 
in my bread,
to know the name of the steer 
whose meat is in my freezer.

To be able to think once more that vegetarians 
are a little strange.

To have never heard the word agribusiness.





How to Write a Poem About an Onion

I. 
start with the thinnest
of thin papers
select a long hollow green
stem to be your pen
use beet juice for ink 

as you write peel away
layer by layer
going deeper
building multiple levels 
of meaning

revise
be prepared for tears
as you chop
chop chop

put all the words in a pan
apply heat
sweat out richer flavors

II.
start with the thinnest 
of thin papers
use beet juice for ink

as you write peel away
building deeper layers 
of meaning

be prepared for tears 
as you chop
chop

apply heat

III.
start with thin
paper
ink

peel as you write

be prepared for tears
chop
heat

IV.
start

paper

peel

be prepared for tears

chop

V.
peel

be prepared for tears

chop

VI.
be prepared

for tears

VII.
tears