Compost by Mary Giles


I made you pot roast, potatoes, and apple pie.

I tried to conform to your recipe

for suburban domesticity.

You hurled oranges and insults,

sprouted verses to your taste.

I changed the formula –

Savoury compromise.

You pitched putrid peaches

Once juicy, perfectly yielding.

Born with purpose.

Now rotting in the backyard garden.