I am so far removed from my food.
Where it grew, from which stem it was plucked
before I reached for it on the dimpled corrugated cardboard,
giving its skin a quick smell,
a once-over for bruised flesh,
and letting it roll from my fingers into a squeaking bag destined
for my metal shopping cart.
I haven’t smelled the dirt
the seed was pushed into,
and I am ignorantly unaware of the pattern
of callouses on the farmer’s hands.
Rampaging, the notion food comes from
a store, a bag, a box
defrauding my senses, robbing them of
the world ee Cummings explained.
These pears I’ve set on grandpa’s stool
grew in my backyard.
Each pulled from its stem by
my mother’s careful hands.
Rinsed in hose water.
Ripened by my kitchen’s climate,
green to gold to ruby.
Each slice closer to the core
I’m understanding this food.
I’m understanding its world.
I’m seeing the small way
in which the basil I pinch
is sharing its life with me.
How very important that is.