RUTABAGAS

Rude. Root. Bagel. Beg.

The violet rumps.

The creamy tips.

Warts. Hairs. Bumps. Dimples.

The faint whiff of dirty diapers

as they cook. A swede, a neep,

a tumshie, a moot. I don’t know why

I want rutabagas in my kitchen

this wintry night. Staple food

of the concentration camps,

food of last resort.

Original jack-o-lantern

carried through dark streets

by children, to ward off bad spirits.

Maybe, it’s the satisfaction I want,

to pare leaf scars from the neck,

peel the body’s waxy, rough skin

right down to the tender.

Published in Tar River Poetry, Fall 2019, volume 59, number 1

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