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.
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