-the potatoes of Bedford Street-

she chose

the potatoes they wanted

with care from the open bins
of Maretti's neighborhood market,

placed them into brown paper bags
supplied to her

by the market’s proprietor

and by the time she arrived home
from the three-quarter block walk
along the first base line
and crossed the street at the ESSO station,

the bags appeared to be aged, worn out,

lost of their property to crease,

dusted by earth's properties—   in short,
taking on the outer elements of the sacked
potatoes within them.

potatoes are cloaked in the scent of earth

and when peeled, of water.

quartered, potatoes are cupped
in the palms of her hands and slipped

into waiting pots of water heating atop
the fierce-burning gas stoves. 

the miraculous, un-broked curl of the skins
are placed into the brown paper bags
from whence they came and disposed of.

the water is not yet boiling when

my mother moved around the crowded

kitchen counters continuing the process
of preparing the things yet to be completed.

this is the process followed

by her ancestors and will be followed
by her grandchildren.


                                Quequechan