While a potato farmer gathers a tuber in Peru
We are gathering tubers, swollen
Anatomies that make us
Cry of longing of despair, helpless
Like a refugee in Manus island
Or a prisoner in Guantanamo bay
We have a heart that swells
When a potato field is not just so many
Eyes summoning you, it is a woman
That could see past your night
And dapple stars in your sky.
And that swelling is our vitality.
Under the ground, away from the beholder
She makes starch castles
And all it takes is a little enzyme, amylase
That she holds, to break the polysaccharides
To monomers. Sweet sugar of love.
We are all potato farmers in Peru
Hoping for a bumper season
Of one larger-than-life tuber.