Where Are the Potatoes

Where are the potatoes, she wondered, watching Heat shimmer across her corn block, its leaves Each rustling against other, turning brown. Right here they were planted, next bed over, Evenly spaced, in two long lines, eyes up And covered in soft soil, mixed with compost -- Really exactly as she had done these fifty years.

Early next morning, she reached for her mason's hammer, The experiment with the spud hook having failed, and Heaving her old bones down onto her gardening stool Exactly at the end of that mysterious weedy bed; Pulled block after block of solid hexagonal clod Over, busting up each as she went, feeling for That coolness she knew as round starch balls All her life she'd depended on. It's not That she hadn't watered and weeded, no, Or fought those gophers well, newly arrived. Earth could not drink for once, it seemed.

Some spuds appeared. They were even Smaller than those from last year. Some felt Hollow. Some were cracked. Some were Even green with poisons though they'd grown Well deep enough never to have seen sun.

Oh, well, she thought, I'll take what I can get; Now we'll have barley for every other soup, with Dandelion to help stretch out my kale. This Earth, she told herself, never did all, Really even in days of rain. Barley I bought. Ere I go forth from here as buried flesh or ash, I'll Do as I have done: work with what is.