| a woman in the shape of a potato | |
| There is a man in Vermont who grows potatoes in the shape of Elvis' head. He could make them any shape I suppose but that's what he chose, Elvis and movie stars and presidents. He grows them in containers he’s fashioned. He starts when they’re young and malleable. He feeds them and loves them into shapes that are both manageable and pleasing. He doesn't let them get too big. They’re still recognizable as potatoes. I am eating a potato in the shape of a woman. This potato is a smiling woman with welcoming breasts soft hands and a willing tongue. She was grown in a container connected by tubing to vats which fed her essential nutrients— stimulants and retardants like sex and debt and fear of aging— and which drained away waste products such as passion and desire. That way she keeps her shape even when the container is removed. There is a man in California who grows women in the shape of his desire. He doesn't use containers since they know the specifications. He feeds them white wine and compliments, complicity and celery. The only problem is they don't last for very long. When I knew him I became a woman in the shape of a potato. I grew too big for him although I was still recognizable as a woman. There is a woman in Oregon eating a potato in the shape of a potato now that she's a woman in the shape of herself. | |
| Elizabeth Ingraham More poems from A Woman Out of Time |