a communist sonnet for potatoes
you haven’t seen me here for four years now and
i wonder what books you’ve read since last week?
when you yapped on about community and communism,
when the black sofa fueled your hope of opening a
long awaited door. i haven’t gotten delirious
on your mother’s fried potatoes since the last time we
argued about crunchy, crispy, coffee, or capacity?
with you pounding into the ground and me
lying half dead next to you — i am skull smashed and
bashed — abashed — i am potato pulp just the way you hate it —
hoping you don’t read me in two hours and proceed to
proclaim me paid for or made for dinner or written for or
worse: someone just like you who watches community burn
for communism, a good book, and a plate of potatoes.
i do not get an appetite
so stretch me thin
tablecloth on a mahogany
dinner table. let my feet hang
down arms fallen above
let plates pile on top of me
let’s eat! let’s eat! the men spin. now
it is my turn to open my mouth
speak before they stuff me shut.
i smell of roast. meals served from my
belly before my starved mothers can eat.
i smell of the oil that has decorated
their arms. scars of satiation. i reek
of political commentary
our guests do not want to hear i am
a smell that no man wants to bear.
dear men, i accept your rejection
frenzied circles: upturned nose anti-show
still irresistible they eat eat eat until they burst
themselves along my kitchen walls, raining shower.
the plates will not empty and
i am no wistful wallflower. the showers may come
until there is not a morsel left over
(Featured image from Pixabay)