There is a graveyard of half-used garlic bulbs on our kitchen counter. only the smallest cloves are left, daring to extract my labor.

so I reach for the choice I’ve been avoiding.

A trio in plastic fishnets. their uniformity incites suspicion, a manufactured whiteness. Where are the bulging imperfections, a clove gone rogue? I press my fingers into their sides and am greeted with rubbery disappointment. I can already taste their lack of flavor. has beens.

just as I am about to accept my fate, I notice something.