the okra heart makes your ankles itch
and its slimy pods, a chore to love.
fried up feverishly, breaks to bits,
though roasted, enduring tougher stuff,
okra hearts grow into rattling husks.

beaten to mush or soaked in a batter,
even on platters, it’s just too much,
and nobody wants it - growing mangled together
in hatred of the sun, to chagrin of the farmer.
okra, stay soft - nourish daughter and father.