Cucurbita moschata
Perhaps you were not picked late enough
to be as sweet as I heard you could be.
All your sprawl and curled tendrils
in the raised bed near where the beans
in their neat rows hid their bounty
and I would have to bend the leaves
this and that way to reap what I liked
so much more than your burnt nut flavor.
Mush in my mouth she tried to make
better with brown sugar and butter.
Even your edible blossoms did little
for me – shriveled, containing bees busy
at their task, with that threat of sting
if interrupted. She would sever
and then scoop out
your seeds and lay your halves
on the pan and each time I thought
of either empty rooms or those images
of the uterus displayed in that class
we all had to take, shifting in our seats.
No matter you were a fruit, relative
to the beloved nectarine with its stone.
I couldn’t grow to love you
in any of your incarnations,
though that one soup blended
with carrots and mixed with cream
by another that one winter so much later
did not repel. The bright green
clippings of chive as garnish recalled
those that grew by the back door
like an afterthought. The spoon
breaking the surface.
| Kelly R. Samuels |
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