I ate you in chickpea
salad and over salmon
previously frozen and
transported to Stop &
Shop weeks earlier in a
white van. I dropped a few of
your sprigs in eggs one
sour morning before dawn.
I was rarely grateful, or at
least not conscious of
my gratitude; yet I did
enjoy the herby vivaciousness
you provided, because it
filled me with fleeting pleasure.
I even found cashews flavored
like you at Aldi’s, and I enjoyed
them somewhat, because they
were buried with piles
of salt and reeked of pickles.
They were not the same as
you. But one day you turned a
deep shade of beige, reminding
me of foods that might appeal
to young children who care not
for anything but themselves
and the prepackaged processed
foods that come in plastic pouches
inside of recyclable boxes that
are often yellow or red. And
you destroyed my appetite.
You sprouted into a chicken
nugget fermenting on the counter.
I could no longer look upon you
favorably. But then the strangest
thing occurred. Even you could
not believe it. You
found a second life, in your bile-
colored empirical state.
Pollinator after pollinator deemed
you the most appetizing treat
in a menu of garden goodies.
Hummingbirds, bees, flies,
butterflies and others arrived to
drink, seduced by your ugly
browned stem: bruised
from overexposure to sunshine,
it appeared almost burnt, really,
and your flowers were
the color of a lemon left
for months in the
back of a refrigerator
drawer. And I watched
for a while until the end
of gardening season, when,
in a jealous rage, I tore
you from your home
and threw you, roots and all,
into the driveway, where
I watched, for weeks, as
you shriveled and died.
and it left me quite dissatisfied,
grim and hopeless,
morning and night.
I drove over you with my
car, again and again, until
you became one with asphalt.
