"Medical Advice" by Gabriel Wagstaff

Medical Advice

Gabriel Wagstaff, Southern Connecticut State University

Artist Statement: This poem follows an amateur gardener who knows better than the experts in every way. He denounces soil and rain as unpleasant for both humans and plants. Instead, he promotes unconventional methods for growing strawberries. Ultimately, he is unwilling to recognize the merits of reliable gardening methods or acknowledge that he may not be the aficionado he sees himself as. We all seem to be aware of someone—often a public figure—who shares traits with this misguided gardener. “Medical Advice” was partially inspired by responses to the COVID-19 pandemic, but it remains relevant every time conspiracies are favored over science.

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I’m growing strawberries in my garage.

It’s the start of a long plan to phase out grocery-store food—

I know I can do much better.

Once a week, I stock up on my supplies,

and laugh to myself as I pass the gardening aisle—

I know their secrets, but they don’t know mine.

These strawberries will be healthier and tastier

than any other in the world.

I have a long steel basin atop sturdy wooden legs,

pushed to the wall away from my car.

The tub is lifted above the ground, away from any dirt

in the pores of the cement floor.

Soil sticks under your nails,

leaves black smudges on your skin,

leaves crumbs of earth on the bottom of your sleeves,

leaves the grit of a foul sulfur stench in your nose—

I know soil suffocates strawberries. They suffer in thin coats of dirt.

So I laid the seeds in a bed of supermarket flowers

with pure white petals and thick green stems.

I opened the seed packet, scattered the orange specks

among the leaves and buds,

and threw away the synthetic wrapper.

Light streams in plentifully through windows

on each of the three walls,

more light than any room in the house,

spotlights setting the stage for this perfect garden.

The roof shelters my precious plants from any rain.

Downpours leave puddles on the ground,

leave mud on your socks,

leave your hair wet and stringy

like an old dog after a bath.

I couldn’t subject my sweet strawberries

to that soaking misery—

I know what they’d rather sip:

Cranberry juice. Vinegar. Clorox.

It’s been 6 months,

and I haven’t seen a sprout,

but I know

these strawberries will be bigger and grow faster

than any strawberries before.