Poetry comes to me through the potatoes.
My head grows sane with each stroke
of the knife
through the rough, pulling skin,
translucent white tuber.
I pour the salt and think of God,
asking him to close every door
and let me be alone
at the cutting board:
A place
where there is no insecurity
no fear
no jealousy
Just a small task,
and peace in that.
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