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.