Baby Gherkins

Pickled. 

Like a cucumber.  Stewed

In vinegar to make me sour

or crunchy – and garlicky.

Like the half-sours

my brother eats when he goes

home – the kind his wife refuses

To buy, because they make

his breath stink. Pickled with stinky breath.

That’s how I feel.

Did I smell bad, too?  So offensive

You turn up your nose, or pull

your dainty hanky closer.

Did you use the sweet posies I made

That summer –

Wrapping each flower stem.

“Here” I said with a bow, with grace

and dignity like I was before

royalty. Only I wasn’t, just
in front of a girl.

Who for whatever reason

Was not interested

in receiving flowers from the likes of me –

No matter how pretty they were,

They still bore the stench

Of pickles.

At my father’s store there was a jar

Where he stored them; it was my

job to pluck one out for each

customer – I had the smallest

Hands.  The smell invaded my skin.

Is that what you found offensive?

Or was it the way my toes

Peaked out from my shoes? I saw

The looks when you took me home

At night – as you peered past me to

My house with judgment in your eyes.

You were not worthy of my affection,

Or my posies, or the pickles from my

Father’s store.  I knew you’d regret your

Haughtiness one day – But I didn’t

Tell you that then.

Not when there was still time to woo you,

With flattery and presents.  I wore

You down, then broke your heart – and

Now you know the pain you caused

Me – in high school.  The cheerleader

In your short skirt, grew frumpy and

Old and married the nerd.  What did you

Think I was after?  Love?  Revenge!

Revenge – and maybe a pickle or two.

Baby Gherkins.