First Rothko Exercise:
Create a space where life appears on the verge of either a new start or disintegration
Not five inches from our boot soles
an immense battle in the buckwheats:
a leaf trying to make itself less yummy,
a caterpillar cultivating a taste for bitterness.
Like the arugula I kept trying to feed
my daughter-in-law, the kale that only wrinkled
her nose. It was not a good start. I wanted to feed
ma belle fille, but I could not bear to strip
the skins the way she liked. Such tenderness
in the way my son peeled the vegetables for her:
two reds, two whites,
green on yellow on black.
No one will win. We will eat. We will
rearrange our tastes. But the worm
will spin herself into whiteness, dissolve
her body into a cellular stew, and wait.