Cucurbita

Once

When I was young

My aunt took to me the garden to see the pumpkin patch

“Look at how the vines choke the fence,” she told me.

 I saw the soft squash blossoms and plump pumpkins. Still yellow and young.

It was the dawn of August and the nights had only just begun to cool.

I nodded, noticing the way the green arms stretched

and twined. One little vine had even curled around the latch almost as if it was desperate to break loose.

I had forgotten her words until one night in deep winter we drove to the hospital with snow swirling around

“Drive carefully” and “maybe tonight’s the night” I laughed.

Hours later, sweat shining on my brow, my body weak and my breath hard I heard you finally cry out.

The night was dark and the hours deep when they placed you in my arms

So soft and plump

But what the doctors didn’t know is that when they cut the cord the other half was

still inside –

a long deep vine trapped,

forever latched

and curled around my heart

Hearth

There is a power in kitchens; a secret language

whispered by steam and smoke,

pots and pans

written and ruled by spatula and spoon. A shrine splattered

with spaghetti sauce, ladle left haphazardly on the edge of the sink

to spare the counter.  A rib cage cradling 

the heart of the home, beating steadily and softly

behind the bones. While the thrum

of the oven sings in tandem

with the beep of the microwave.

There is a power in kitchens; born from the language

spoken by bare feet on sticky floors. Mopped gently

by tired hands.