Ross E. Lockart


I could take the easy route, brown, heavy root with eyes, but must look deeper.

Oblong russet, heavy, one end covered with tiny spots up where the vine connected you with Mother Earth, umbilical.

On the other end, three, four patches of dark skin seem like the peeling of a sunburn.

I stroke your surface, count thirteen eyes. I feel your dark, earthly skin. I run my thumb along an inch-long scar on your side, pointing from one distant end to the other.

You look like an asteroid, a meteor, an alien tuber saying, "Take me to your leader."

An hour at three-fifty, and maybe some sour cream could stop this invasion.

Looking at your scarred side, I imagine the lump as a nose, a belly, an ear. I turn you over in my hand; I contemplate your weight. You’re an awfully big potato.

Maybe covered with chili and cheese.