Sheath

Before I knew its name, I knew the laurel bush
By its gnarled branches, as bent as my grandmother’s hands,
The space it made for a three-year-old’s fort.

I knew its flowers were hexagonal and sweet.
But not for eating. A complicated flower
Blooms in my chest.

You can eat the roots of the grass, though,
Pulling, slow and careful, the blade from its sheath
To draw the sweet white nectar between your teeth
Look—I can still show you how.

For the month of November, I write a poem a day to support the efforts of the Center for New Americans. Please support my efforts by contributing to this wonderful organization via my pledge page.