Which sounds, I admit, like tumors
and must, on some long scroll
                  of words, have shared a common

root, some thick and prickly thread
                  that cinched to bind them tight
like the lips of a sack’s wide mouth.

                  And most often, I think it’s burlap.
Heavy and bursting with Carolina Reds,
                  maybe dark Georgia Jets, dug from sandy

soil where they’ve grown and spread
                  unseen. Which is also what tumors do.
And perhaps why I dreamed last night

                  of my father home from the doctor.
We sat at an orange table by my weed-
                  wild backyard garden where I killed

my rows of potatoes with too much compost
                  and lime. But here was this feast of home-
grown tubers. Peruvian purple hash with dill

                  scrambled eggs. Roasted yams, pecans,
and almonds tossed in maple syrup. And with every
                  plate we filled, we ate till there was no more.