“Let Us All Grow” by Jason McKinley Williams

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Just a few weeks ago,
my clumsy fingers
could not tease apart the seeds
falling from the cheap packet
into creases in my palm.
I did my best to drop them singly into the thumb-wide furrow.

Thirty years ago,
mom would say: “Go fetch some corn.”
I would sprint
past the flower beds,
the clothesline,
the silver-painted submarine of a propane tank,
past the plywood backboard nailed to a creosote-bleeding telephone pole.
and the wooden stand dad built to hold the camper top for our truck.
Peeled four fat ears from the stalks,
and raced them to the table
already tasting amber caramel
bursting in my mouth.

Now, I just gather these lettuce leaves
soak them,
drain them,
soak them
drain them again.
What could be simpler?
What could be easier?
(Those are, of course, not the same).
But to tear the leaves in my teeth,
feel the taste transform across my tongue.
What could be more of a miracle?

-Jason McKinley Williams

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