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.