Journal of Writing & Environment

The cauliflower encourages shock—

a fat bulb you loosed


from the stalk, grown

all summer to give itself up.


The dark farm in diorama

crams between each branch.


I brush caterpillars into the sink

and geese wink out, smatter


dirt on my hands

in their landing.


Without a knife, each flower

clicks clean from the stem


as you said it would,

in a backward crack,


a snap of the head.