Warts and all, illustrated by Angelin Miller
Warts and all
At the marketplace, my eggs sell
themselves.
My basil’s gone by nine, and my rhubarb
pies fetch a creamy price, so my walk
back’s
weightless. It’s just me and my empty
cart.
You see? It doesn’t matter that my face
scares bats. By day, my visage stays
downward
on dirt, scales and coins, but my nose
lifts up
ambling back with a jingle as the stars
glint like tavern lamplights off raised
ale cups.
If I can jingle, who could say I’m
cursed?
I was foul and fourteen when my pop-pop
pulled me bodily out to the garden,
bent my stubborn knees beside the
turnips,
gave me a trowel, looked in me and
said: “Start.
Warts and all. Start.” My body sprouted
warm.
That day I became apprentice to dirt.
It never kills me that their comments
hurt.
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