Holly Pollard
Butterbeans (2022)
harder to grasp than death.
Slipped from pods, like little promises,
enkindled and easy to count.
Assembling to the tune of loose change,
drifts of pebbles and unstrung beads,
fated to relentless spilling—
steeped, they loose themselves
to tomatoes in hot oil, halved walnuts
and lemon rinds, among other things:
skirting around for hours, a ring around the rosie,
following the spoon. With the humble-delight
of muddled vegetables
they present themselves,
breaching, one-by-one,
in all the fullness of the freshly-picked.