by Diane LeBlanc
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.
Diane LeBlanc is a writer, teacher, and book artist with roots in Vermont, Wyoming, and Minnesota. She is the author of The Feast Delayed (Terrapin Books, 2021) and four poetry chapbooks. Poems, essays, and reviews appear in Bellevue Literary Review, Bellingham Review, Cimarron Review, Green Mountains Review, and Mid-American Review, among other journals. Diane is a holistic life coach with emphasis in creativity practice, and she teaches writing at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. Read more at www.dianeleblancwriter.com.