as a boy
i remember
watching
my mother
peel potatoes
w/ a knife
the way she
held the blade
the way her thin
wrist turned
& how she took
just the right
amount of flesh off
& dug out
spots of rot
saving the most
pathetic potatoes
& how clean
they all looked
in the colander
beneath the faucet
& then decades later
i remember
how she got sick
but still insisted
on cooking
& burned a pot
on the stove
after she passed
out on the floor
in the den
& how i wished
it was simple
that i could’ve
taken a knife
shaved away
the tumor
cut out all
of those terrible
multiplying
dark eyes
until everything
was clean again
rob plath writes like a velociraptor is behind his back. he loves cats & the moon. find more of his work at robplath.com
