look like the lungs or thumbs of a Norse god.

They learn and learn like osmosis in reverse,

            and die as old men do, hot and dry.

They hate to be touched, holy and sored as parched

desert prophet; diviners

            devoted to the ideal of the self, self-compressed:

they think potato-ness, intensely and with pure

interest. Before plopped into the pot,

there’s no exhausting one of its dusty life

            until a resurrection by heat

and water, then milk and butter.

A potato never dies as ‘a’ potato, only broken into ‘some.’

Long ago, the true gods, (who are jealous), stole their stumpy feet.

Cut short of roots, they are left to subsist

by drawing homes to them; where

            you eat potato, that’s where roots gather.



- Pat Leech