I baked purple peruvian potatoes the night before my brother came over, with rosemary, garlic,
and olive oil. I had wanted purple mashed potatoes but upon slicing them I saw they were far too
beautiful for smashing. To keep their patterning intact I cut some in chunks and some in thin
circles. What a
as they baked!
detail but still they
the salad of romaine
tomatoes with sesame
I was alone in my
feeling sumptuous and
evening m y brother
home. I asked if he
said whatever I had
girl had just finished
we stood in the
ravishing, urgent scent
baking blurred their
were beautiful next to
hearts and sugar plum
and seaweed dressing.
apartment, feeling
solitary, and the next
was there when I got
wanted meat but he
was fine. A beautiful
breaking his heart. As
kitchen eating leftover
baked purple potatoes with fresh anasazi beans and whole wheat tortillas, he remarked “Purple
potatoes make the best mashed potatoes.” Not having received a response the first time, I asked
again, “Water? Juice?” He choked out, “I did everything right!” and fell into my arms.
skin tinged purple brown
gouged-out eyes baring flesh
fractalling white borders amethyst
entanglements, hemispheres
intricate in cut disks
greased like ready muscles
crushed rosemary needles
oily and wrinkled
caramelized contours, ivory
scallop fans of pearly turnip
amaranthine spuds