potato 

they buy islands like sheet cakes.
write their names in sugar. 
live inside beautiful boxes
full of more beautiful boxes. 
in the kitchen we too are keepers
of boxes. cereal & soap & teeth. 
the story of humans is
the story of vessels. how much you have
& how you hold it. i open a box of 
dried potatoes. the flakes are soft like fresh snow.
i remember as a child eating a dry
mashed potato packet with my tongue. 
salty bites sticking to the roof
of my mouth. 
it was summer & the microwave 
had broken. my brother & i decided to forage.
dipped lemons in sugar as a snack. went outside
barefoot in the warm grass. somewhere
they sleep in rooms of potatoes.
potato beds & potato children.
i think more about rich people
than i would like to. i see their videos
online. their houses. their hunger
despite of all the potatoes. their summers,
endless. their children, in little boxes.
from the food pantry we get packets
of mashed potatoes. i open one to smell it.
somewhere a man is worshipping 
a fork. somewhere his teeth are bells. 
at least i am no longer jealous of them.
i see mansions & i think of them full
of mashed potatoes. all of us there 
eating from their boxes. sitting in
their boxes. laughing in their boxes. 
potatoes growing from their trees. potatoes
soft & warm. the microwave humming
like a new mother. the islands,
made of mashed potatoes, slipping back
into the ocean's brine. the thing about 
a container is that it is not eternal. 
just a small attempt to own
that which cannot be owned. again,
i eat the dried potatoes but this time 
with a spoon in the dull morning light. 
soon it will be summer. 
someday we will all be full.