Poetry

Eating a Leek

You laugh in cautious surprise
as he pulls apart the earth
discovering a bulb, a white knuckle
nature trusts you to eat.

No one will kiss you for days, he says
and smiles as you bring it to your teeth.
The leaf as green as yellow flops gently
under your chin, dirt catching on your tongue
before the tangy crunch of the wild center.
You’ve admired these leaves before,
yet never thought to dig one up.
Before you were hungry, before
your lunch was sadly ordinary.

Now alone your eyes catch the mark of the onion,
its friendly color at your ankles, your muddy socks,
you wonder if it will taste the same as the first time.
Expectation has taken over virgin excitement.
Eventually your hiking boots take you away
and you are satisfied
with knowledge over taste.