Since my miscarriage, every time I cry I have dramatically yelled at my boyfriend that it’s all over the fucking potatoes. He laughs, I laugh, and the crying stops for a minute. It doesn’t fully go away until it’s been unburied, let out, carefully addressed. When I cry and potatoes come to mind, I plant my feet in the ground, my hands in Jenny’s head – but don’t worry, she’s a plant so it’s okay. I’m just trying to get back in touch with reality, root myself from floating off, losing my head.
What if potatoes have never been anything but the need to ground yourself, look inward, find the effort that we can appreciate rather than what else the potatoes could have become. After all they are, we are, so very versatile. We can be anything if we set our perspective correctly.
Potatoes
Thinly sliced potatoes
cast iron pan
flip each one individually
extra crispy
extra effort
I may not have noticed
without the topic surfacing
wouldn’t have acknowledged
Raw potatoes
an unanswered call
need cut in half
pan, oil, seasoning
that’s all
unanswered
missing effort
I may not have angered
Crying out potatoes
never for potatoes
not even hunger
need to root, ground
a sense of security
an acknowledgment
buried, after all
they need uprooted,
exposed
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 