By Holly Day

for months, I watched as the vine wrapped itself around

pieces of dead tree and suffocated my plants

and wondered why I had wanted it there, why I

had allowed something so invasive to take root

among my violas and columbines, its leaves

so broad they took all daylight away, killing my

grass struggling to grow through hastily-thrown piles of

mulch, then one day, I went out and checked under the

leaves and saw the giant zucchini boner, I

couldn’t believe my eyes, sprouted overnight and

more than one, little ones, bigger ones, saluting

me like an army of green men built just for my

palm, and only the most important parts, no grasping

clutching hands, no irritating, whining voices

no embarrassing morning-afters, really, I

wonder,  fingers prying loose the gigantic spears

feeling their hollow, cool weight with trembling fingers

anticipation, how much zucchini will my

mother need for cooking, how many zucchini

can one person actually eat?


Holly Day lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and two children. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Pataya Poetry Review, Wondrous Web Worlds, and Philadelphia Poets. Her newest nonfiction book is Walking Twin Cities (Wilderness Press).

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