Poem | Celeriac

dirty, battered face
sleepy with no eyes
all dream and wood inside.
It fed on the dark loam its hairy sallow cheeks,
wistful under ground
green sprigs stemming out from its head.
Most of its personality lies below vision
the very core of its knobby root
overgrown family idiot of the celery
grated, chopped, or ground
Spring awakening winter can’t kill.

Published in the March 20, 2015 issue: 
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Born in France, Jean-Mark Sens has lived in the American South for more than twenty years. He taught in a start-up culinary program at Mississippi University for Women and lives in New Orleans where he works with the Goldring Centre for Culinary Medicine. His work has been published in the United States and Canada, and is the author of the collection Appetite (Red Hen Press). He is also working on a culinary book Leafy Greens & Sundry Things.

Also by this author
Loose Stone in the Compass

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