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Roger Jones


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.