Black-Eyed Peas

Last January on the first,

As tradition bid her do,

My mother attempted to cook black-eyed peas

To welcome a year (decade!) new.

Every year since her marriage, she’s followed this custom,

But last year, something went wrong.

The beans turned out burned, and soggy, and mushy—

She must have cooked them too long.

“Well, it’s not like it matters,” she said with a shrug,

(She’s never been one for superstition).

“It’s not as if they really bring luck—

This year, we’ll just skip that tradition.”

So we didn’t eat peas, and all that to say:

It’s all our fault this year has sucked.

Tomorrow we’ll eat them, burned, raw, or good,

In the hopes that they’ll bring back our luck.

(We’re sorry.)