Mandrake

A mandrake tipped from its pot
flops like a parsnip left
at the back of the fridge –
its root hairy legs silent and puffed –
the thought of it makes me flinch.

All my fears swelled inside me
at last year’s New Year’s Eve party.
As I walked back from the shed
with another crate of beer
I heard the crowd sneer and shout.

The party had flopped into bitterness.
I bragged about my mandrakes,
their rarity, their power.
Guests were propped against the sink,
the fridge, smoking at the open door.

Then some cocky prick picked up
a pot and tipped the lazy roots
on the drainer – soft soil fell away
between swollen legs to show something
small and shameful that choked

the kitchen crown with laughter.
Now I stand at the window
and know my plants have slowed
since they were pulled up
and paid for, they are weak,

yet their glossy leaves look healthy.
Their roots are soft as carrots
steaming in supermarket bags, I pick up,
put back, with an irritating feeling
of confusion and doubt.