Attack of the Squash People

 And thus the people every year 
in the valley of humid July 
did sacrifice themselves 
to the long green phallic god 
and eat and eat and eat.
 
They're coming, they're on us, 
the long striped gourds, the silky 
babies, the hairy adolescents, 
the lumpy vast adults 
like the trunks of green elephants.
 
Recite fifty zucchini recipes! 

Zucchini tempura; creamed soup; 
sauté with olive oil and cumin, 
tomatoes, onion; frittata; 
casserole of lamb; baked 
topped with cheese; marinated; 
stuffed; stewed; driven 
through the heart like a stake.
 

Get rid of old friends: they too 
have gardens and full trunks.
 
Look for newcomers: befriend 
them in the post office, unload 
on them and run.
 Stop tourists 
in the street.
 Take truckloads 
to Boston.
 Give to your Red Cross.
 
Beg on the highway: please 
take my zucchini, I have a crippled 
mother at home with heartburn.
 

Sneak out before dawn to drop 
them in other people's gardens, 
in baby buggies at churchdoors.
 
Shot, smuggling zucchini into 
mailboxes, a federal offense.
 

With a suave reptilian glitter 
you bask among your raspy 
fronds sudden and huge as
alligators.
 You give and give 
too much, like summer days 
limp with heat, thunderstorms 
bursting their bags on our heads, 
as we salt and freeze and pickle 
for the too little to come.

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