Three Poems by Cynthia Gallaher

by Cynthia Gallaher

Roots: Dense Treasure

underground vegetables

of the first chakra, muladhara,

the rootedness we imitate in yogic poses,

grounding down in order to expand upward.

oh, dirt dwellers who absorb soil’s richness:

carrots, parsnips, white and sweet potatoes,

beets, radishes, rutabagas,

turnips, sunchokes,

onions, shallots, garlic,

celeriac, yams, yucca,

kohlrobi, ginger, turmeric,

jicama, horseradish, daikon.

opposite of the burial we give compost,

instead we unearth these powerhouses,

dense treasures of minerals,

but unlike iron ore or emeralds,

bauxite or bloodstone,

galena or garnets,

that are crafted into tools atop workbenches

or faceted to accompany marriage proposals,

such rocks won’t meet

our primal sustenance,

as do these sub-surface healers, tough survivalists,

self-preppers to aid and abet deep appetites

through hearty stews, roasted medleys of singed colors,

warm and spicy purees that stick to our bones

and balance our root chakra

beyond winter.

Malabar Spinach

I thought it plain old Popeye spinach,

those nursery seedlings,

three little plants with tiny leaves

no bigger than my fingernails.

At home,

cutting tags to mark

each place in the raised beds,

“Malabar?”

Not Malibu, but a farther

flung coast, in India,

Malabar Spinach,

with leaves thick and resilient.

The vines, like embarrassed snakes,

nevertheless coil recklessly

around nearby yucca and rosebush

as they proliferate.

Soon, ever-expanding emerald hearts

could be plucked to cover

a well-endowed Adam

and the breasts of Eve.

One website noted,

each shiny leaf bears three times

the Vitamin C

of regular spinach.

I unfurl yards of it

in the kitchen sink, my hand

like a monkey’s legs

sliding down

A tree trunk,

stripping leaves

all the way down

into a gigantic sieve.

From now on,

these vines will always be welcome

to unfurl and wander this small planet patch

on the flip side of Malabar’s home.

Are Kisses Sweeter Than Tupelo Honey?

bee hives, heavy with resplendent summer,

hang honey from myriad roofs of the comb.

in this subdivision of golden-walled houses,

pollen-laden residents

and groundskeepers dressed

like Kendo masters,

dance around sweetness

and one another.

pre-hive to palaces of sweetness,

its workers carted by truck,

lugged to these farms

like so many prisoners in stripes,

not locked up

but limited by fertile radii

of flight paths,

to stick close, to pollinate

cantaloupe vines, lemon trees, buckwheat, almonds,

apples, onions, broccoli, avocado

and carrot crops.

every honey hive’s 12,000 angels of agriculture

hum in C-sharp below middle C,

each devotee devoting an entire lifetime

to turn out 1/12 of a teaspoon

of nuanced lavender flower or orange blossom,

transforming pre-digested nectar in wax cells

into nature’s perfect food,

a recipe field-tested for 10 million years

freshly cured by the fanning of wings.