I hate you
my little brother and sister zukes
you’re so cute, tidy, green, unblemished
you seduce the gardeners
winking your stupid orange blossoms
whispering “Pick me! Pick me!”
and then, enchanted, they’ll
carefully pluck you
gently hold you
slowly turn you around
smiling, admiring
cooing as if you’re
some kind of newborn baby
“Look Julia… this one’s beautiful!”
NOBODY’S ever gonna cradle ME!
I detest you
and then they’ll
tenderly place you into
a tidy little wicker basket
along with your
perfect little veggie friends
and whisk you off to
gorgeous designer kitchens
dens of gustatory hedonism
where you’ll be only too happy to be
sliced, diced, seasoned, marinated
grilled and roasted
and then you’ll ride the coattails of
snobby garlics and
pretentious tomatoes,
mingling in antipastas
swimming in zuppas
lounging in lasagnas
adorning pizzas
cavorting in insalatas,
arranged upon white linen,
among the silver, the crystal
the fresh-cut flowers, and the
elegantly dressed guests will gush
“Rodrigo! Where on earth
did you find your zucchini?
This bruschetta is exquisite!”
I despise you
and just who do I get to be?
I’m the monster of the veggie patch
dead zeppelin of the garden
beached whale of the back yard
NOBODY wants to pluck and savor me,
no no nooo!
all they care about is how BIG I become
so I just lie here, lonely and ignored
in the driving rain
overrun by ants
slimed by slugs
my belly rash worsening because
nobody wants to turn me lest
I snap from the vine and stop growing
so I just get bigger and bigger and uglier
I loathe you
how do YOU think it would feel,
the indignity of being
heaved into the back of a filthy pickup
with the other veggie freaks
driven to some silly state fair
dumped upon a rusty scale
jabbed by dollar-store ribbons
hoisted upon a stinking
bale of hay, only to be
gawked at
laughed at
pointed at
along with the other
humiliated squashes and pumpkins?
I can’t stand you
I’ll never get to warm up in a skillet
I’ll never get to tingle anyone’s palate
I’ll never be the reason
well-heeled
over-fed
tummy-rubbing
cigar-smoking
brandy-swilling A-listers
raise and clink their glasses in
A Toast to the Chef!
because I’ll never have your
tender, delicious, arrogant flesh
who the hell would want me,
a 300-pound zucchini?
no, they’ll just
drive me home from the fair
chop me up into compost
feed me to the worms
you precocious little zuke-pukes
I hate you
– Paul Raworth Bennett
