matchbook

here’s dandelion greens, of course. Lamb’s quarters, silvery and soft, in more places than you’d think. Raspberries and actual grape vines pushing through that fence on Seventh Street. On walks, I flip through the catalog in my mind where I keep every edible plant I know, just in case. Thimbleberries border the cemetery grounds, a sweetness with a simple plan to thwart capitalism: too soft to ship. While I walk, I daydream: at the hands of some blurry environmental disaster, my landlord flees and leaves her tenants to their own devices. I grow a row of sunflowers out front and let big lima beans climb their legs. It’s easier for me to imagine a near future of climate collapse and abandoned rental properties than it is to imagine owning a house with a yard where I could make decisions for myself. I’d find a place for the squash vines to trail, nail window boxes along each wooden beam of the porch.

Online, I see a mother in Gaza with a bundle of what looks like weeds, asking please what do I do with this? Is it safe for my children to eat? I recognize it—purslane, a fast-spreading succulent that stores watery mucus in its stem and occasionally offers tiny yellow flowers. We eat this in Mexico all the time, very nutritious, says one comment. You’re doing a good job. 

It’s easy to tell myself that we’re all living in some kind of apocalypse. Mine still has a grocery store within walking distance and $102 of food assistance per month, barring any government shutdown. Mine collects the taxes from my teaching job and uses the money to buy bombs. But when I pinch a deep-red raspberry between my thumb and forefinger on the way to work, it’s not because I have nothing else to eat.

Next, I’d like to find a mulberry tree, or feral apples that aren’t full of holes. Maybe I won’t wait for the end of the world to plant my sunflowers. Per the lease, it’s my responsibility to cut the grass, and I can mow around the delicate seedlings before their baby-fat leaves grow into pointy, protective spades. I’ll let the massive blossoms go to the birds while I’m inside searching how to harvest sunflower seeds, tucking the information into my files—before sweet potato, after stinging nettle. I want the goldfinches to come, to settle their weightless bodies on the hollow, tall stalks. I want to know I am feeding someone.