sounded like Spring with beating hearts
of romaine, baby spinach leaves cooing
impishly in the cradle, with shavings of radicchio
slightly bitter and speaking no English.
This was not my mother’s pork
chops smothered in reduced brown sugar
or her bubbly meatloaf floating in juice
or the noisy neighborhood Ragu goulash
boasting in a chipped china bowl.
This was true confession, a bag of vowels
and a comma or two of arugula, all spun
out of control like a French revolver
loaded with seedless grapes.
We were briefly held hostage, and yes
I was holding a filet knife I had
purchased on the Home Shopping Network
sharp enough to cut my breath
but I didn’t dare move. Then
the blue cheese crumbled, “Mon Dieu.”
Everyone was relieved when a sprig of fresh mint
farted softly, blushed, and whispered “Excuse me.”

# # #

John Cullen’s work has been published in journals such as Grist, The Cincinnati Review, The MacGuffin, and the American Journal of Poetry. His chapbook Town Crazy won the 2013 Slipstream award.