Turnip Heads – Nightmare Magazine

CW: child death.

I wrote this poem as a critique of certain political parties that espouse pro-life policies for “life” in the womb but won’t lift a finger to enact laws to help children once they’re actually born (anti-gun legislation, free healthcare and school lunches, etc.). They regard children as disposable fodder or as political points to be scored for their ghoulish agendas. I find that terrifying.

—PI

The botanist frowns,
tells you and your spouse he’s sorry for your loss;
that no child should be shot in a classroom.
You bite your lip, nod, and peruse
rows of countless faces jutting from raised planters.
Their eyes are shut, mouths slightly agape;
like toddlers enthralled by a dream.
How do you pick?
They are all cherubs, rosy-cheeked and dusty,
fine grit powdering their eyelids.
You plunge your hands into the soil, sift around, and pluck one.
You dust it off and it stirs, waking from its torpor.
Its thin, pale limbs stretch,
roots dangling from chubby fingers.
Its head is bulbous, verdant leaves bouncing like hair.
You hold it in the crook of your arm
and it coos like a baby.
You feel the rush of warmth again,
the palpitations as your heart drums against your chest.
The botanist tells you they mature in six months,
that they are blank canvases
ready to be molded to your liking.
Ready to be loved.
Yes. Love.
You feign a smile, kiss your partner,
and begin to walk away with your new child.
Before you leave, the botanist reminds you:
The law only protects them before they’ve sprouted;
once plucked, they may be consumed.
Should you so choose.