is what Luna serves him.
She forages and all she can
find is these, with their little
white heads and greeny secrets.
Months of being cooped up
with him, their too tiny space
inundated with snow after
heavy wet ice after hailstone
and rain, wind whipping
beneath the floorboards, stilts
rattling a wild tossing tattoo.
There were dried up carrots
and mildewed beets left
to throw in with the brackish
draw from the well. Her put ups
being all but decimated.
And she spies them, clusters of
early March milk maids, a first
flowering, stoop-shouldered and
shy above the sooty patches of melt.
A gift, she thinks, from the angels,
for ain’t she like Eve then? Needing
a little swig of the hope, after losing
so much that was good. Too late
she remembers their other name:
death’s flower, so beautiful they
were once she clipped them, like
mermaid’s hair drifting over the bowl.
He gobbled them fast, and she did too,
so craving of green were they both,
and then the cramps and the stomach
flips set in, the two of them dizzy as
love sick fools, giddy, he says, with
spring just round the bend. Their guts will
mend, since at least she remembered:
leave bulb in the ground. She doesn’t
tell him the story, but maybe next year.
She pictures how hard their empty
bellies will shake when they laugh.