if your love were a potato
i would tug on my work boots every evening
and go out, and when i’d find it
i would reach into the soil,
bite my grip around it tight,
and pull it out, roots bursting like firecrackers.
i would carry it in the bowl of my hands
to the farmhouse and rinse it in the kitchen sink.
i would press my fingers into each eye
and scoop out the dirt, turning it over
in my hands until my fingers wrinkled.
i would peel it gently, thinly,
keeping the meat intact –
i would pluck out the rotten pieces
with a graceful precision, an assassin
snapping necks under moonlight.
i would boil it whole, then slice it
down the middle and call the children for dinner.
they would eat and i would watch them
and feel my belly swell
and when they’d finish, i would go to clean my boots
and find them waiting, spotless, by the door.
~ Rob Taylor
Rob Taylor lives in Port Moody, British Columbia. His poems have previously appeared in a number of print and online magazines, including Vancouver Review, Quills, and One Cool Word. He is the co-founder of the poetry magazines High Altitude Poetry and One Ghana, One Voice. More of his poems can be found on his blog: spread it like a roll of nickels.
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