May I venture to address you, vegetal friend? A lettuce is no less than me, so I respect you, though it's also true I may make a salad of you, later. That's how we humans roll. Our species is blowing it, bigtime, as you no doubt know, dependent as you are on water and soil we humans pollute. You're a crisphead, an iceberg lettuce, scorned in days of yore for being mostly fiber and water. But new research claims you've gotten a bad rap, that you're more nutritious than we knew. Juicy and beautiful, your leaves can be used as tortillas. If you peer through a lettuce leaf, the view takes on the translucent green of the newest shoots. Sitting atop your pile, next to heaps of radicchio, you do seem a living head, a royal personage who should be paid homage. I am not demanding to be reassured. I just want to know what you know, what you think your role is—and hear what you have to say about suffering long denied, the wisdom of photosynthesis, stages of growth you've passed through. I can almost hear your voice as I pay for you at the cash register, a slightly gravely sound, like Kendrick Lamar's voice, or early Bob Dylan, both singers of gruff poetic truth. Nothing less was expected from you, sister lettuce, nothing less. Copyright © 2017 Amy Gerstler. Used with permission of the author. |
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