by Penn Kemp
I would eat local food only were it not for temptation.
A green invitation of open avocado in emerald halves.
An alluring variety of mango hot to eye, cool to tongue.
The seduction of dark chocolate.
The slurped fulfilment in oyster.
The simple necessity of rice.
Otherwise, I would be content with my yard's fall produce.
But having tasted the world's fare, how to return unjaded
to simple pleasures that this ground offers? Beans.
Corn. Squash. Corn. Beans. The three sisters thrive.
Yes, I will eat local food mostly. Except for. Accept. Except...
No one claims carrots for their own. But banana. Or chocolate. No
chicory compares to café au lait. ¡Ole! Import coffee; import tea!
Import taunt! On to political rant: our food too cheap,
our farmers ruined.
Our eyes closed, we rest easy, spoiled ripe fruit in the docks,
turning sleepy to sun-rotten. Given so much, we reach for more
even when over full. Poems break off as the lunch bell rings.
Don’t miss “Serendipity and sound forms ”, Helen Carmichael’s fascinating review of a poetry celebration with Penn Kemp and Susan McCaslin, also in this issue.