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150 f r o m g o u r d s e e d s u m m e r f o o d Green, the shape of a man, with the insides of a woman. They swim and dive around each other in the boiling water, like porpoises. O, to put the whole pod of okra in the mouth. Tomatoes, it is time to taste ourselves, in these wet, red rooms, the rooms of our mouths, where lives the sigh of language. Corn, the tassels pull apart, ears and silk, ears and silk and teeth. Cantaloupe, a globe in tight webbing, crisscross imprint. The onion underground, in crumbs of dirt and old fabric. Heat waves take form. Without panic or fear, the air becomes visible. Cucumbers, turning and sinking in the vinegar bowl. I hold a head of cauliflower in my hand. It’s the head of someone whose name escapes, which is not so strange. There are many names for the ones we love, and wonderful to say: • • • 151 f r o m g o u r d s e e d Broccoli, Lettuce, Cabbage, String Beans, Snow Peas, Pear, Watermelon, Pomegranate, Plum. Let us eat the solid forms of sunlight, and walk around after supper in the gold time, loving each other and talking vegetables. ...

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