Aloo

Underappreciated by those to whom
all herbs, plants, roots and tubers are medicinal,
Aloo doesn’t get along with those to whom
every Yam is Sweet Potato.
Calling him Spud is an insult to his race.
He is an egg from which no hatchling will emerge.
His skin is thinner than Onion’s.
His heart harder than Walnut’s.
Aloo is not as succulent as Watermelon.
Not as furtive as Custard Apple.
No one can swallow him whole.
No sunshade is cool enough for the eyes
all over his body.
An indispensible ingredient for vodka,
he has no sense of time and place.
He will bloom when he likes, and where he likes.
When you let him overwinter under your kitchen sink
he will surprise you with Aloo sprouts.
When he is baked, his skin gets tanned—he will compete
with the darkest of wood coal that bakes him.
When he is boiled with others, he will try to outperform
Lentils and Drumsticks in an endurance contest.
Even if you slice him into thin film, and deep- fry him,
he will be singing ‘‘The New World’’ at karaoke.
He is the undisputed original Hexagram,
the Father of purple flowers,
the most celebrated revolutionary from Latin America.
He has been a vegan since he was underground.