411 B
411 B
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.