Artichoke

There is a more thorough juice

I would extract and administer,

could we pinpoint the right grove. 

Here, however, deposits 

of decent sap glisten, 

ignored, left to capture ants 

and harden to some future

epoch’s amber. Here, 

spurned shoots emerge

whose milk isn’t bitter or poison.

Dull berries hang untouched 

that would nourish, even amaze. 

It’s not a matter of selling off my things,

mapping out a pilgrimage—

this odd mass on the plate

a flower, in fact, one whose petals 

you peel and pull between your teeth

to glean the spare cling of meat 

found at the foot of each frond.

Steve Petkus