Black- soil-stained hands,
Weaklings at my feet,
Today we thin beets
So the others grow strong.

The beet is my spirit animal
In food form, but
Not the weak kind-
I am the strong one that is good enough
to eat.

The beet is discrete
The beet is a vicious vegetable
The beet is humble, *****,
Beneath most humane things
The beet is ugly, absurdly
Colored.
I often wonder how it could be natural
But the I remember Hell is natural too.

I dream of beets
They are at dusk and dawn
In the desert monsoons,
In menstrual cycles,
In the blood of my enemies I want to slaughter,
Then taste.

When I roast and handle my beets, they are the
blood on my hands I can't rinse off
The black soil remains under my nails indefinitely
When I’ve forgotten about the beet,
The beet has not forgotten nor forgiven
me
I **** and **** and spit red
The beet never leaves me
Beet, please, never leave me.