m a d t o r r e n t s o f s w e e t p o t a t o e s
A L E X J O S E P H
Which I hate! I sense, in them, the betrayal
Of something sacred and buttery. Never one to
Accept the carrot without the stick, she always
Said to me, "Leave the asparagus
Unpearled!" (whatever THAT meant). We couldn't
Make sense of it in the cold kitchen
Under those cumbersome lights. It was all too
Present, too risible, too makeshift, a plane
Without the i's dotted. Then it was eggs.
Of course! Eggs. Who can forget them, sloppy
With mayonnaise, with radish and mustard?
Without tomatoes, we grew lonely.
With grapes, we were afraid.
Say not the desecration, "sandwich," or we'll flee
Like a coven of roaches. We'll hide.
Pickles are slothful, and indignant. They
Hate being the sideshow. And in the drawer
Beside the gas stove
Is the old matchbook, the stone dry matches
Quivering, in their attenuated rows.