← v1n1, Spring 2002
Poetry · Volume 1, Number 1

The Potatoes, Marilyn Nelson, Inge Pederson

Hospital. In sinking

yellow gardens. Water

stands still

under the trees.

In a white bed lies

my immortal father.

Behind our closed eyes

we are busily

laughing

throwing leaves into the air

to make gold rain.

When we run

our feet swish.

Come evening we rake

the litter together,

make a bonfire.

In the air above the flames

his face is peeled

vibrating, naked

his glance in mine

before it congeals.

The potatoes in the ashes

are for me