She stops at the cauliflower.
Fluffy heads range the counter.
They bend apart, limber at the stalk.
No, she says, no good. A marrow next,
she raps the hull with her knuckles, runs
a hand along the skin. There’s never
much to them, she sighs.

Last, a globe artichoke. Solid.
Closed cupped. A purple hue
streaks each leaf. Her closed eyes.
Slow, soft fingers wrap the head
as if to feel the heart
inside. Beating. Ripe.
She holds it by the stem.
My artichoke bride.
Yes,
yes I will.