taking apart 

i bought heads of lettuce
for few weeks in a row instead of 
the pre-chopped up bagged kind of lettuce.
i carried them home from Stop & Shop
like infants-- cradling them
& inspecting their green folds.
i imagine them in a huge field where
all of them stand side by side.
what did they talk about?
using the word "head" to describe something
so loose. so easily pulled apart.
it's so true & in the kitchen i asked
each leaf to teach me how i might
pull myself apart similarly. i washed
the heads in the sink & thought of my mom
& the old farm. mom holding up
a purple-evergreen head of lettuce
& asking me to look at how beautiful it was.
in the kitchen she'd work one head
at a time--washing the lettuce
in the big silver bowl. in the garage 
there was a faded blue baby bathtub &
i'd ask her if she washed me in it
& she would say yes. smell of baby shampoo.
a lathering. i wanted to wash my lettuce
like that--like rich foam but that's 
not how you wash a vegetable. 
maybe they weren't lettuce--
maybe they were in fact children each
buried in leaves. it feels important now
to mention these were heads of romaine
& that as i took them apart the leaves go
smaller & smaller towards the center.
shaped more & more like canoes.
i float those canoes in the sink &
the sink over flows to i lay on those canoes
until they float all the way down the hall.
the heads of lettuce have no feet
to scurry like children should. they have no hands
to leaving finger prints on windows. 
they have no stomach to lay on the floor.
i tear the leaves to shreds. this is how
they become more manageable. 
my mother did the same-- ripping at
the purple lettuce's ruffles as if she was
destroying a dress. in the end there is
at least something to be eaten.
a process to complete again. i wipe
my hands on my thighs. i blot
the torn lettuce with a towel
to dry up the water.