My life is
constrained.
My feet are
always wet.
As a child
the water was slow and cold
but warmed
and sped as days passed.
My siblings
and I learned no skills
of survival
in the hydroponic trough.
No mud
fights, no insects to avoid,
sunlight
measured out in spoonfuls
according to
a formula that governed
the
chemicals on which we grew.
Consider
adolescence in such a setting:
My leaves
were growing and my hormones
were
inciting my imagination.
As I looked
up and down the line
I could see
three or four fellow lettuces
with whom I
would welcome contact:
not even a
butterfly came
to take a
message to them.
My biggest
change was the budding
and building
of my heart:
it became firm
and strong
and
attracted positive comment
when I was
pulled up without consent.
Torn from my
trough, my spirit waned.
There was
little sympathy
from those
who packed,
bought and
sold me.
Eventually I
understood my fate –
to be
stripped naked,
my heart
torn out,
my leaves chopped.
My salad day
had come.
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