Potato by Mark McKain

Give us this day our flakes poured from box, unzipped from freezer, thrown on tray, ushered into oven. At the table, waiting for flesh, catsup, shoe to drop, words to catch in throat, tears not shed, leather tongue to unwind. Uneaten, hiding under lettuce, among peas. Unable to speak. On the sill, tooth-picked over water, eyes pulled into a tangle of roots. Tuber, rich in self-starchiness, do not self-destruct. Do not let depression stunt. No, from cut, scar, blemish, black spot, rot, say you will germinate, regenerate. Swear it!