Turnip

I am out of words, as if I kept them
in an empty jam jar, long since scooped clean,
any hint of former inhabitants
soaped and rinsed away and set out to dry
by the kitchen window. And I don’t know
where to buy more, the chain grocery store
around the corner only stocking so
many as to serve their dull purposes:
pound, off, sale, fresh, frozen, produce, dairy.
It serves me right, thinking I could buy my words,
or steal them from the world that gives me breath.
Better if I grow them on my own, now,
large like a pumpkin, many like ears of
corn, harder than a round, ripened turnip.

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