Double Tap That

A poem about food culture.

Cracked, calloused hands

meticulously tap my seeds

deep into the rich west coast soil;
soil for soul.

 

Carefully, I come alive.

My brothers and sisters surround me.

Together, we,

an ocean of mighty green

along the vast countryside.

 

Cultivated for perfection

for commercialized mass consumption.

If I am lucky, I will be picked,

my body dismembered,

to go its separate ways;

bittersweet farewell.

Cursed to a life in the trash heaps

or sold to upskale health food stalls

and farmers markets

where wealthy patrons

make their way

eyeing me, measuring my worth.

I am just one bunch in the culture of kale.

 

If I am lucky, I will be picked,

bagged and brought home,

added to a stew or served in a salad,

left to make temporary small talk

with cranberry, quinoa, carrot.

A last conversation before

my denouement;

dinner.

 

And during my final moments,
some food for thought.

I loath in the fact that

there will be nothing left

to commemorate me

but an artsy food picture.

Cropped,

filtered and seasoned

with hashtags: #cleaneating

I am nothing more

than a gimmick

for the Gram. 

Reviews

[Shy Joe]

A form of personification! They always get you thinking. Inanimate you are, but the life you live is only read by the seeker as they can't tell their own story. I enjoyed your poem. Thanks for sharing.