Produce Aisle

Only a God with a sense of humor would invent the Brussel sprout:
miniature green skull concealed beneath cowls of many shades of green,

opening to dozens of tiny cells like the inner chambers of the brain,
tasting of bitterness, sweetness too, like life.

What intelligence would design the rutabaga? Purple croquet ball,
cross between turnip and cabbage, growing wild

on Swedish mountainsides and lowlands alike,
food of last resort in two World Wars, but beloved of goats and cattle.

Consider the practical joke of the onion. Whether clothed in purple,
aglow in amber or awash in white, it will make you weep.

Still we cling to it – raw, cooked, steamed, sauteed, fried, pickled –
as one would hold onto a bad lover, welcoming the whole extended family:

shallot, scallion, leek, chive. Who except one with an extravagant heart
would invent parsley? Never the main event, always humble window dressing.


Or the generous tomato? Faithful spouse of pasta and pizza, traveling companion
of salads and sandwiches, progenitor of so many proud families:

Roma, Early Girl, Cherokee, Compari, Kumato, Brandywine, Big Beef.
What genius it took to craft the pomegranate, a design the Greek geographer

Pausanias called a holy mystery. A fruit older than Babylon:
firm exterior opening to a cascade of ruby beads,

sprung, it is said, from the blood of Adonis, enticing
unsuspecting Persephone toward its forbidden inner cargo,

sentencing her to an endless cycle of winter exile.
Think of the tapers of zucchini, the pregnant eggplant,

the celery’s long mallets, the immense palette of blooming colors:
peach, cherry, carrot, plum, pumpkin, lemon, avocado,

more pleasing than a painting. Then who wouldn’t bow
to this tableau of plenty, observe a moment of silence,

say thank you right there in the middle of the produce aisle,
and perhaps even drop to one’s knees?

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This poem also appears in the July 2022 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 87, No. 7, page 35). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.