Real

Real

The best yield the garden bore was before 

we soiled the spot with seed, before

Henbit and Bittercress became weed

because we didn't plant them

there, and the fence was neatly stacked 

in lumber racks at the hardware store 

with a pressure-treated chance

at perfectly plumb. Our significant others, too,

kept their figures firm as the flesh of a fresh cuke

twenty years into our marriages 

before we met them, their priorities in prim 

rows well-tilled and running parallel to our own. 

The summers were never dog-tick  

hot, spouses always were, and our houses rarely 

required repair, till we—our very real 

bodies with their very real hungers

tiptoeing for the ripe glint of it all

at the top of the trellis—found the beans

were soft in spots and less than ideal,

but still, once swimming in a thick confession

of butter, infinitely more filling.