And thus the people every year br in the valley of humid July br did sacrifice themselves br to the long green phallic god br and eat and eat and eat. br They're coming, they're on us, br the long striped gourds, the silky br babies, the hairy adolescents, br the lumpy vast adults br like the trunks of green elephants. br Recite fifty zucchini recipes! br br Zucchini tempura; creamed soup; br sauté with olive oil and cumin, br tomatoes, onion; frittata; br casserole of lamb; baked br topped with cheese; marinated; br stuffed; stewed; driven br through the heart like a stake. br br Get rid of old friends: they too br have gardens and full trunks. br Look for newcomers: befriend br them in the post office, unload br on them and run. Stop tourists br in the street. Take truckloads br to Boston. Give to your Red Cross. br Beg on the highway: please br take my zucchini, I have a crippled br mother at home with heartburn. br br Sneak out before dawn to drop br them in other people's gardens, br in baby buggies at churchdoors. br Shot, smuggling zucchini into br mailboxes, a federal offense. br br With a suave reptilian glitter br you bask among your raspy br fronds sudden and huge as br alligators. You give and give br too much, like summer days br limp with heat, thunderstorms br bursting their bags on our heads, br as we salt and freeze and pickle br for the too little to come.