Picking String Beans
It’s almost the Great Depression,
not quite the Grapes of Wrath.
Mama, my sister, brother and I
climb into an open-back,
wood-panel truck on Skid Row
for pickers. Twelve years old,
Mama’s eldest, I eye scruffy men
riding with us, while dreaming
what I might buy with today’s green –
maybe the Nancy Drew book,
The Secret of Red Gate Farm,
before Mom needs my money.
We brake and a farmhand shows us
our row. I pluck. Grueling and boring,
I’m drooling for lunch at ten.
n the sun’s firing line, I drop my arms.
Others march by with loaded containers.
Soldiers of the trenches, I’m gunning
for you, grabbing and bagging.
O how my body aches, nose itches dirt,
and I’ve tasted too many raw beans.
Nearby a boy yodels, Cold sodas for sale.
At double store prices, no-deposit,
no-return, I swallow my day’s pay.
Your Nettle, Naughty or Nice
Don’t brush gently against me, grasp my stalk
nnnnnnand I’ll lie flat. Then, bed me in a steamy bath.
My green lineage iron-willed as spinach. I’ll hemp
nnnnnn you up, settle your restless stomach with tea.
Sit on me and I might prickly-pink tattoo you,
nnnnnnjumping up and screaming to soothe your itch.
How about having me for dinner tonight?
Hard core, my hearts are caches of healthy chemistry.
nnnnnnDon’t boot me. Futile not to taste our fertile future.
Maybe I’m not your cultivated flower or fruit,
nnnnnnbut I’m stem spindly, my jagged sleeves spinning
to your sly wind’s breath. Don’t keep me in the woods.
nnnnnnHow about having me for dinner tonight?
Don’t just go for fancy, feather-headed ferns
nnnnnnor mind-tripping mushrooms. Don’t waste yourself,
pick me, a playful plateful. A morsel? More bang
nnnnnnfor your pluck. Mettle up, your garden’s shrinking!
How about having me for dinner tonight?
Denise Utt is a poet living in New York City. Her poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming in the Bellevue Literary Review, Paterson Literary Review, The MacGuffin Journal, and elsewhere.
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