Violet, petunia, dahlia

In biology, my classmate asks me why I don't grow flowers in my garden plot 
I point out that he also doesn't grow flowers, that his potatoes have yet to unwrinkle, unfurl
He says that someone should grow flowers
I point out that my cucumbers are flourishing, my tomatoes are ripe, my mint is fragrant and cool
I tell him that my plants are better for bees, my vegetables use very little water, my sprouts will be harvested by early fall
He tells me that my box would be good for violets, petunias, a dahlia
I explain that no violets, petunias, dahlias would grow because they don't get enough sunlight here
He asks if we can garden in silence, because he has a headache
I pull my hoe through the loose gravel and drop my spade against the sidewalk
The next morning, thirteen candy-pink peonies are lounging against my garden box
The professor smiles warmly at the boy beside me while I toss them in a gully
I sever the buds of his potato plants with the sharp end of my shovel
Three mornings later, my box has been replanted in the colors of strawberry shortcake
Tears sink through the topsoil and burn the edges of flimsy white roots
The professor says clearly a force of nature wanted to give me flowers
And winks at the boy
The boy glares at me
I liberate three dying potato plants from his row
Nurse them back to health with pure wrath
His box is left barren for the rest of the year
Clearly a force of nature didn't want him to have potatoes