Perhaps I Am Too Ambitious When

Purchasing Fresh Vegetables

​by Zeke Shomler

It’s turning white with mold and oozing,
the English cucumber in the crisper drawer;
it’s leaking from its plastic onto browning lettuce
and facing death with certainty,
blending one thing into everything
else. I almost made salad three different times
this week but changed my mind. I’m more permeable
than a dripping vegetable.
 
What is it about the light
that makes me hold my breath?
What is it about the sound of the refrigerator
that pins me to the ground?
 
I put the cucumber into a trash bag
scented with artificial mint and cover up my
shame with other
remnants of my appetite. Along
the length of the cucumber
there is a plastic seam. Along the length of my body
there is a perfect place to wound.
 
Is this life,
the softened thing I held in my hand? I’m less
impermanent and more imprecise.
I wipe clean the acrylic drawer with soap.
It’s possible I am too ambitious
when purchasing fresh vegetables or perhaps
I need to face expiration
with eyes wide open, hum the dull hum
of the refrigerator, verdant ooze
slipping in between my fingers
with the same shallow logic
as blood.

Photo by Conscious Design on Unsplash

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Zeke Shomler is an MA/MFA candidate at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. His work has appeared in Folio, Sierra Nevada Review, Bicoastal Review, and elsewhere.

A 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, Zeke's poem can be found in Issue 29 of Glassworks.