Peg’s thick Jamaican cadence
ricochets off the cooler’s walls.
The boxes flying
Swoop, catch, swoop, catch.
An assembly line that never stops.
Beets spring out of the chalky ground.
I chew a leaf,
Bitter and perfect.
The machine swallows the stalks one by one.
Magenta
juice bleeds into my hands.
Sun gold tomatoes
peppered throughout the vines,
a canopy over my head,
can I reach it?
Ian moves a mile a minute
Only move rocks this big, he says.
All I see is the fuzzy pink sweater
someone gave him yesterday.
He wore it.
Sizzling peppers on the ancient stove,
A greenhouse-turned-kitchen.
Hammocks, sleeping pets, and deserted car seats,
No two plates are alike.
My fingers held so much today.
How many tools?
pea shoots?
carrots?
The sleeve of dirt seems permanent.
Good.
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