The Watched Pot

Sitting on the living room floor,

Knife in hand,

She is cutting okra,

She wonders,

What kind of love

Turns a moment into a memory

Perhaps trust is the fairy dust that

Keeps the birdplanes flying

And the pelicans full

And the cropdusters are helping the fields

And not rattling the home walls early morning

They are spraying the land

with alternative medicine

Her hands are wrinkled

Her nails are cracked but she imagines

The kind of peace treaty

That makes it alright to put the slippers
Underneath the left side of the bed

The kind of agreement that

makes her continue on,

With a smile

Even when he calls her

by another womans name
Even when his knife

Is too dull to help

Or his pressure too high

And the raw crunch too loud

Or the pan too well hidden atop the cabinets

What chill makes the chin quiver

When the watched pot is too slow

To come to a boil


(Photo Credit: Amber Wilson)


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