THE POTATO EATERS

From deep earth, a lamp rises

to the ceiling of the mud-colored house

claimed from darkness, a darkness valued twice

for these potatoes ripened in hardship,

humbly gathered, now at rest.

Beneath the fork, they glow,

expanding in the light, starving hunger, their mercy

lustering these weary, soil-knowing faces,

doubling the light upon clay bowls,

the teapot, hands that rake life’s stones.

Bitter tea brims the cup,

this too the labor of fingers bent toward earth

like branches, the flames in their eyes

dim, cold, hard as their toil.

They pass the cup.

How they dig, head down, the furrows;

how the roots reach through earth,

firm, waiting for release.

All these wait with patience,

too spent to suffer my gaze.

Easy for me to turn the page,

answer the doorbell,

leave. My own hoe delves

a weedy field of words,

digging deep, hands shining

in this earthen house,

its joy, its hope, its bitterness.