The Interlude with CabbageMarcela Sulak
I dislike you, cabbage. Your tight-fisted order yielding to my little knives with your immaculate squeaks. Your rotund indifference to all that falls away. The fact you feed me through the winter, through the centuries, and I dislike my need, the shadows of my lifting fingers cast by your green light, and all my old sorrow. I dislike your density, as if the world lacked space, your pure white heart that open fields can’t heat, the way you fall apart when cooked. You’re such a poor looser. Plus it takes so very long to finish all of you. I can say without reservation, I hate all the casual ways you’re so unseemly chaste, so haughty in your modesty, so moderately good.
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