The avocado pit
hangs there
naked,
atop the glass jar,
crucified
by toothpicks.
Its pallid roots
dangle in the water below,
like tendrils
of some exotic deep sea creature,
long extinct.
I examine it daily
to see why she
leaves it there,
so exposed.
The pit, that is.
She speaks no words,
merely grunts
commands.
Short, bent-over, stone-faced.
A gargoyle.
One time she locked
me in the pantry
for having lost a shoe.
Cold, damp, still,
the space fell in on me.
Hours later
and not a sound,
no light at all,
only the dank odor of potatoes
slung inside a sack.
In time I came
down after dark
to study the seed
more closely,
like a specimen in science class.
I expected it to be
exactly the same
Hadn’t it always been?
But…
Now the pale skin
had split,
and from deep
within the cleft
a stem unfurled,
lifted up, it seemed,
by viridescent wings.
This article appears in Mar 10-16, 2016.