Turnips

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.