My first taste was on a date with my future husband
who ordered a platter of nachos to share. If I
carried the aversion gene and tasted soap,

we might have ended there. But it became
my fail-safe in April storms, reminder
to watch before I plant, first green

triggering hope so dense it must be thinned.
My precision is surgical, and I’m reluctant
to rinse the scent from my fingers.

Some believe it’s a food of the afterlife,
but in this life it grows thick and tangles its white
blossoms with tomato vines and peppers, so I work around

July’s blushing coriander seeds suspended
on green spokes. Patience with the whole mess.
Then the yanking and scattering for a second yield.

I have so little to offer in April but this waiting
to witness. Then the first harvest, barely leaves
reinventing two bowls of black beans.