broccoli & cauliflower 

august steams the trees
in the park into broccoli 
so you & i go out with our
craft scissors & cut off 
the florets, holding them
like warm bouquets all 
the walk home. 

i confess that i'm scared 
of cauliflower because 
i'm not sure where
it comes from. i imagine
them growing on the bottom
of the ocean, the deep 
white reaches where no light
can go--there the cauliflower 
serve as flowers for evil fish,
their gnashing teeth & their 
sharp edges. 

i trust broccoli more.
dad says if you leave broccoli
in the sink with water that it
will bloom into little yellow flowers,
this happened a few times before
& still every time i eat the broccoli 
i imagine it blooming all inside me,
we open our mouth & check
each other's throats for yellow.

late in the night
i go down to the fridge, bare foot.
i think of waking you up, but 
decide to go alone. i rummage,
i crawl inside on hands & knees,
listening to the hum 
of the cold white sun.
i find a head of cauliflower 
& feast, instantly flung to
the depths of the atlantic 

& there i think of all
of us, everyone at the kitchen table,
our forks poised & the salt
& the pepper chirping & flapping
their wings. what odd animals 
this all is. i chew & i turn 
all blank, the color washing
our into the water, the yellow
flowers pouring out my mouth
like air bubbles. 

in the park you bite
the side of a tree without me.
i shout from the water
but you're too hungry  to listen.
you bring the broccoli home
for the family like a good
child does. my body feeds
the evil fish.