Three years ago,
I made a disastrous,
ill-fated mistake;
I planted two tomato seeds.
Little did I know,
those two seeds made a promise,
or perhaps a pact,
to carry out a cruel legacy upon my garden.
The following year,
I planted bell peppers.
They never saw the light of day –
the tomatoes had survived the winter and the frost.
Their monarchy established,
they choked out sprouts before they could bloom;
their army of vines
forced strawberries to surrender.
Now,
they’ve claimed divine right to the sun,
any plant that suggests they share
shrivels and fades in the shade.
I know that once I’m buried deep under,
looking up at my radishes from below,
those tyrants will continue to have their way,
and they will make sure the radishes rot with me.
Cora Hyatt is a poet, student, and Indiana transplant presently living in Portland, Oregon. If delivering flowers, send red carnations.