Let There Be No Winter Squash After the Apocalypse
as it might mean that’s all there is to eat. Forbid
the acorn, spaghetti, kabocha, happy holiday pumpkin,
butternut, which sounds better than it tastes, that granular
orange wash of froth spewing from ravioli, sage no decoy.
Let the post-apocalypse be filled with sugar snap peas & fresh
radishes; grilled portobellos, steamed & roasted
broccoli, cauliflower, even turnips & rustic rutabagas.
Let our starvation be sated with asparagus & arugula,
sweet onions sauteed golden & globes of garlic roasted
& pressed into tomato sauce. Let us gather in the communal
hall, holding hands against the scorched-flame sky and toast
our lives with homemade wine, breaking bread around a table
strewn with platters of spring onions & eggplants roasted
to olive oil tenderness. Lean into the survivor at your side, both
of you glowing, not from radiation exposure but from everything
but winter squash. No more cubes or curries; no more uncooked
slices or butter-riddled mashes. No pretending it’s so good
because now we can finally admit, not one bite was. The worst
has happened & we are alive anyway. Pass the red leaf & avocado
salad. Sip the wine. Wait for whatever is coming next.
the acorn, spaghetti, kabocha, happy holiday pumpkin,
butternut, which sounds better than it tastes, that granular
orange wash of froth spewing from ravioli, sage no decoy.
Let the post-apocalypse be filled with sugar snap peas & fresh
radishes; grilled portobellos, steamed & roasted
broccoli, cauliflower, even turnips & rustic rutabagas.
Let our starvation be sated with asparagus & arugula,
sweet onions sauteed golden & globes of garlic roasted
& pressed into tomato sauce. Let us gather in the communal
hall, holding hands against the scorched-flame sky and toast
our lives with homemade wine, breaking bread around a table
strewn with platters of spring onions & eggplants roasted
to olive oil tenderness. Lean into the survivor at your side, both
of you glowing, not from radiation exposure but from everything
but winter squash. No more cubes or curries; no more uncooked
slices or butter-riddled mashes. No pretending it’s so good
because now we can finally admit, not one bite was. The worst
has happened & we are alive anyway. Pass the red leaf & avocado
salad. Sip the wine. Wait for whatever is coming next.
September / October, 2022
Jessica Barksdale is the author of the poetry collection Grim Honey and the novel The Play’s the Thing, both published in 2021. Her novel What the Moon Did is forthcoming February 2023. Recently retired, she taught composition, literature, and creative writing at Diablo Valley College in Pleasant Hill, California for thirty-two years and continues to teach novel writing online for UCLA Extension and in the online MFA program for Southern New Hampshire University. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband.
Art: Madge Evers. Hueso. Mushroom spores on paper.