Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I have three turnips:
sharpness gathered in softening rinds
like new wine in old wineskins,
pink & white carousels
from a run-down amusement park
graffitoed by nematodes.
They fit oddly in the palm
with their rats’ tails & severed tops.
What planet are they from?
They’re marooned—no eyes
to sprout grappling hooks,
no way to win back the sun.
But when I slice them open:
starch-white deserts
unriffled by any wind.
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).