The Inner Life of Vegetables
Rooted
I’m a potato.
What else could I be--
curled in a tight ball,
covered by a soft soil blanket,
umbilical cord
a slender green thread.
My body is alive with eyes
ready to open at first light.
My thin skin, peeled back,
exposes hard raw flesh.
Everything smells of earth.
All around me--
the prospect of kin.
Who will dig me up,
dust off the worms and dirt,
open my eyes to the world?
Celery
Some call me Proud.
Envious of my ramrod stance,
my primal green (Earth’s chosen color),
my glorious head of hair
spouting like a fountain
from my ribbed cage.
Yet, secretly--
I have imagined myself
a delicate ballerina,
sweeping across the stage in
leaps and perfect pirouettes.
A Tchaikovsky swan.
Instead--
I’m rooted, rigid, bound,
my limbs wrapped tightly around
an ever-diminishing core,
fragile and pale.
What no one knows--
through my veins
an ocean of dreams
flows,
flows,
flows.
Green Bean Dreams
I know you think
I’m just one of hundreds.
That I’m lazy, hanging
around all day in the sun, maybe
sipping a mango margarita--
that I’ll never amount to much.
Well, Buddy, I’ve got news for you.
I’m lean and mean
even if I’m green.
One day I’m gonna slip my reins,
tear loose, and gallop away.
Before I die, I plan
to soar with the condors,
shoot the rapids,
lasso the wind.
One night you’ll see me
loping through the arroyo.
I’ll be leading the pack
in the moon serenade,
pouring out my wild coyote heart.
Summer Squash
I’m a voluptuous squash,
a courtesan sprawled under
a leafy curtain that only partially
hides my mounded hips,
the green tip of my plump bottom.
I could lie here all day (I do!),
toying with that pitiful squirrel,
who’s always sniffing about--
too tiny to transport my enviable weight
to his puny hidey hole.
Spread to sun and showers,
I ripen to a scrumptious yellow,
buttery and sweet,
awaiting my ravisher.
Come pick me—I dare you!
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
Rooted
I’m a potato.
What else could I be--
curled in a tight ball,
covered by a soft soil blanket,
umbilical cord
a slender green thread.
My body is alive with eyes
ready to open at first light.
My thin skin, peeled back,
exposes hard raw flesh.
Everything smells of earth.
All around me--
the prospect of kin.
Who will dig me up,
dust off the worms and dirt,
open my eyes to the world?
Celery
Some call me Proud.
Envious of my ramrod stance,
my primal green (Earth’s chosen color),
my glorious head of hair
spouting like a fountain
from my ribbed cage.
Yet, secretly--
I have imagined myself
a delicate ballerina,
sweeping across the stage in
leaps and perfect pirouettes.
A Tchaikovsky swan.
Instead--
I’m rooted, rigid, bound,
my limbs wrapped tightly around
an ever-diminishing core,
fragile and pale.
What no one knows--
through my veins
an ocean of dreams
flows,
flows,
flows.
Green Bean Dreams
I know you think
I’m just one of hundreds.
That I’m lazy, hanging
around all day in the sun, maybe
sipping a mango margarita--
that I’ll never amount to much.
Well, Buddy, I’ve got news for you.
I’m lean and mean
even if I’m green.
One day I’m gonna slip my reins,
tear loose, and gallop away.
Before I die, I plan
to soar with the condors,
shoot the rapids,
lasso the wind.
One night you’ll see me
loping through the arroyo.
I’ll be leading the pack
in the moon serenade,
pouring out my wild coyote heart.
Summer Squash
I’m a voluptuous squash,
a courtesan sprawled under
a leafy curtain that only partially
hides my mounded hips,
the green tip of my plump bottom.
I could lie here all day (I do!),
toying with that pitiful squirrel,
who’s always sniffing about--
too tiny to transport my enviable weight
to his puny hidey hole.
Spread to sun and showers,
I ripen to a scrumptious yellow,
buttery and sweet,
awaiting my ravisher.
Come pick me—I dare you!
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
