Broccoli
It was always their mother that made the roasted broccoli—
not one of my favorites; leave it for the experts—
but today, as the sun draws shapes on the counter,
I find myself with the serrated knife sawing
at the tender stalks, arranging them like scattered clouds
on the baking sheet. Only now do I see the way
the bunches stick together, branches connecting
like joints entwined under each floret. Or the way
salt and pepper and garlic snow into the creases
of each teardrop bud. Or the way the edges blacken
in the orange light of the silent oven, singeing in heat.
It’s only after, when they’re scooped onto plates
like darkened brush that I find out how I did—
the blend of season and slice, of heat and time,
into gap-toothed mouths that are quick to criticize
but may be too young to understand
the way my stalks bend and snap under the cover of my skin.
Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Livina Press, The Storms, and The Bombay Lit Mag, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.
The Marbled Sigh 