A small mess of peas, really,
but the greenness of these
Purple Hulls made for an hour's
work. Standing at the counter,
straining to run my thumbnail
down the zipperless pod seams,
I thought of myself in childhood,
sitting on the back step with Lucille,
our maid, talking and popping
peas into an aluminum bowl,
the thwack thrumming
airy space between us.
I eat my peas straight:
gently boiled in salty water,
no bacon, hambone, fatback:
the pure taste of field and family
is more than enough for me.
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