He calls it a vegan grief binge:
a whole head of lettuce
bodies strewn under disco lights.
What music was playing?
ED? Indie? Whimsy?
Nothing whimsical about this day.
He chops cucumbers, carrots;
adds almonds for protein, mint
for the taste of tears. Across the field,
cows yawn in the barn, lazy
as they approach the robot milkers.
The sun glows hot, parching the sad squash.
I make a note to spot-water at dusk, too lazy
to drag the hose. The bouncer braved the spray,
wrenched the secret door, led the lucky
like Moses seeking a promised land. His name: Imran Yousef.
The papers don’t state his religion, or if he needed one.
Only the gunman’s—important as his preference
for salad dressing: Lime turmeric? Green Goddess?
A preacher asks sheep if we can truly be sad
about murdering Sodomites. The sun shines over the kale,
and the cilantro stretching away from its roots.
All part of the salad, needy and seeking harvest.
Soon. Before everything bolts.