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.