The Humbling of a Potato

she sheds her camouflage piece by piece,
relenting to the force of nature.
now she looks unlike the others in their shades

except for red sneering welts,
she is naked. she has nothing to hold
but a fraction of momentary awareness.

as if hexed by a charmer
she twists and grovels toward a clearing
where, against her will, she docks her fears again.

the fowls, how strong are their noses!
they smelled blood that's yet to trickle
while she ushers their welcomed hunger.

and the fowls claw at her body;
they pick at its red welts
while she relishes the agony they feed her

their dribbling slaver burn like acid
and leave bluish-purple lacerations.
what candy-like appeal to a fowl's eye!

she feels how each wound will nourish her
how each sharp piece will nurse her back
to the wings of halcyon.

when the fowls exit the clearing
she will be fresh and soft
for the sun to harden once more.

then her skin will be like the others' again ---
taut, and shiny, and motley-hued ---
invisible on the vivid earth.

then her head will bow to the ground
that has always possessed her.


Potatoes think weird.