One time it was gourds

that surfaced like Montgolfier submarines

in her pea and spud patch.

 

Bright lumps and dumplings,

they were too-much as fondant, or nougat.

Too good to be true.

 

Hollow to knock on, as if containing corridors,

when they toughened

into chilly cocks and succulent truncheons

she cupped them in turn and twisted

each from a bristling stalk.

 

Then came years of hardening atop tellies,

wondering nowhere in fruit bowls.

You didn’t know what to think

until she stabbed one with a dinner knife:

out spewed a jackpot of dry, half-pence seeds

none of which would work.