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Roger JonesCUCUMBERS
It's this way with me with cucumbers: pour a little vinegar in a bowl,
slice cucumbers into the vinegar, sprinkle on a little black pepper, it's
1963. I'm nine again, and the summer's erupting: the sun's high, the
days are long, and everything's coming in from the garden: huge melons,
tubs of corn, tomatoes, crook-necked and white squash. Cucumbers sit on
the table in vinegar, in a bowl on the lazy susan; Mother's in the kitchen
stirring blackberry jelly, and rumors abound of cousins due from far away
later in the week. There's the snap of summer crispness in the air, and
at night a full animal moon. When I look in the mirror, I see vines for
arms, leaves for hands, and my face, suddenly turning green, moving toward
the light.