Beet Seeds, Russian Sugar (Organic)

My mother gave me seeds for my birthday this year
and I tried not to wrinkle my nose:
my childhood dinner-plate enemy is not a sight I hold dear. 

I am not one to judge a book by its cover 
but the knobbly brownish-blackish mass 
thrusting its tentacles into the earth 
is objectively unappealing. 
Still, she insists that I twist the plot this year, 
so come spring I dig out rusting gardening supplies, 
fill my fingernails with filth.

Twenty pounds now tucked in the cellar
I am finding that bee-t-s (that is, behind the scenes) there lies 
a vibrancy of life and lineage. 

Standing together at the counter, 
staining my cutting boards 
brighter than the setting skies,
my mother traces for me 
a story of seeds and strength.

Roman folklore has it that beets are aphrodisiacs and
my very being seems to prove this fact. 
My grandmother carried these seeds with her
across an iron curtain, an ocean, a land where she could not speak a word
sold these seeds to a man I call Opa
and together
they began a life.

When the skin is pierced
the beet explodes into lively fuschia
lifeblood leaking out
yet the pink that mottles my palms 
never fades from the plant itself:
spring of eternal élan. 

When I take this root in my hands 
this ruddy thing I have reluctantly come to love
I can trace my own roots:
the heartbeet of my heritage.

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