Bag of Potatoes
by Mary Ann Meade



I keep skinning the smaller spuds.
Keep thinking someone found a wounded bird
on the rim of the earth, nurse it,

nursed it to flight. For now I salt
the smaller spud, weep over it.
Then take a hard bite.

Slowly, I swallow memory.
Were you not a wounded bird. Did I not
hold your face in my hand.

I take another hard bite
into a raw spud. Chew and chew
for a thousand years.
















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