microwave sweet potatoe

my heart cooks unevenly.
is prone to the textures of 
syrup & soil & cedar. will you
set the timer on my face,
tell me tomorrow i'll swell
so round in the dirt 
you'll have no oven to fit me?
please come kiss my dirt stained face.
brush off the old fingers
& replace them. hold my whole heft
in one patient hand. at the farm,
we used to unearth ourselves.
used to dig & see a nose
or an ear. pluck herbs 
like they were just
the pages of old dictionaries.
switch the sun out for an onion.
hold frying pans 
like purses. at the end of the hall
is always a microwave.
watch my face rotate 
on the small glass plate.
around & around i go softening
to an apology. i need to exist
without slice or sorry
but i'm too busy asking
if you know what went wrong
with my burrowing. we find hearts
in the floorboards. handcuff ourselves
to cabinet doors. i'll keep all winter.
i'll feed us day in & day out.
my tongue replenishes. no matter
how many mornings it aches with root.
you used to put me in the wheel barrow
& call me "tomorrow." i used to
look up at the sky & imagine
the clouds & the blue also the texture 
of earth. how dare it be 
breathe my steam
& my cirus. 
i have your familiar 
in my carapace. let's grow old
& less valuable. 

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