When our son became a vegan
we misunderstood, I’m sorry to say.
The wife and I believed he’d come to be
a vegetable, perhaps broccoli, if the color
of his hair was a sign. Still he was civil,
civil for a vegetal son who moved outside
and took to sleeping in our raised garden bed.
You wouldn’t believe how happy he was
when it rained. I have to admit
he stuck to it like he’d stuck to nothing before.
He took to self-composting.
The neighbors were appalled of course.
Their “normal” children lived in mud,
or existed on diets of raw fish smoothies,
or powdered drugs which they snorted,
rubbed on their bodies like SPF 100,
or somehow vaped. And the wife and I
were thought the odd ones? We’re not sure how,
we only know when, but our son
made us proud parents. Grandparents actually.
We don’t ask. Not sure he would tell.
But the raised bed is now a broccoli forest.
As urban farmers we understand there’s always
some killing needs to be done around a farm.
But eating our own kin, even with a cheese sauce
is hard to wraparound your head.
The author resides in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college, and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). Recent acceptances: Hamilton Stone Review, The Cape Rock, Conjunctions, Kestrel, Drunk Monkeys, Sequestrum, & Spank the Carp.