a poem by Roger B Rueda
in dykes has been growing enough leaves
all year round even during summer,
children, fathers, and mothers
stepping on or pulling it out
as they hurry to work or home,
all finding no use for it,
only grannies pinch
its leaves for their mung bean
porridge with shrimp
in pink curved body.
Only the tongues
have memory for it,
only the children going
with grannies
know again its fresh bice
appearance.
It's all strange to those
who have never been
grannies' big babies, but it
has been
an acquired taste to them,
and there they remember it,
not as an edible in dykes
but a flavour
at the dining table when
they go home
to the middle
of nowhere when school holidays start.
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