Catalyst to a Potato, a poem
Can I perform the miracles of earth, sun, water?
Can I be the warmth that gently pries open
eyes, that coaxes forth pale shoots, that causes
hardness to soften to green? If I throw the potato
against the wall again and again, will I ever cause
the potato to change? For so long, I tried to form
myself in the potato’s image. I tried to become
round, dense and heavy with stability, I tried
to protect myself. It did not work, it failed.
Now all there is left is her, one small girl alone
in the world. Her lips are redder than mine ever
were. Her shoulders are strong, she is not fragile.
You were the potato, the one I could never change.
Lobbing you again and again brought no result,
no visible difference. Yet in your eyes I am
the one who remained indifferent. I am not
ashamed, yet I am the one who needs to change.
You want only to rebuild. Take stock of your
small garden, not everything there is sound.
There is no such thing as healing. There is only
covering over, sweeping under, tamping down.
You know we will never love each other again,
yet you do not weep. This time I will not do it
for you. I am finished with praying for miracles.