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Ken Pobo
Aunt Stokesia’s Potato Peeling
Over the sink I hold
my grandmother’s peeler.
She named it Millie. I try to make
mashed potatoes as good as hers,
have no angels drizzling in the milk,
sprinkling in salt. I have a mailman
bringing bills. Commercials
insist I’m not right—
something’s missing, something’s
always missing. Still,
my potatoes are pretty good. Gravy,
a snake, slithers down the potato mound
to the bubble glass plate and curls
up on the couch. We play Scrabble
after lemon squares. A potato moon
rises. I’d peel it if I could,
plop pieces into my biggest pot.
It stays away like a feral cat.
Those craters should swim in butter.