sometime between noon and one, i am spooning
potatoes out of a waxed paper bowl. i don’t know
what day it is—i have just driven halfway over yonder,

through suburban maryland and back every weekday, all month
to be here, performing emergency maintenance on my brain.
and unfortunately, a paper packet of iodized salt

is not enough for these potatoes to taste like anything
i actually want for lunch right now. a pat of butter
meant for frozen dinner rolls does not sate, but i do chuckle

remembering what my mother once said about
my grandmother at the end of her life, when she lived alone—
that for dinner, she’d microwave herself a baked potato

when her body said cooking wasn’t on the agenda.
through mealy bites, i store this moment away,
this heartstring that felt no strain until now but has dragged

since i waved a last goodbye through a rehab window.
six months ago. i will not write yet, but when i do, she will
still be there, days of golden breakfast potatoes

after sleepovers long behind us both. she will show up
on a day like this, remind me not just of our similarity,
but our tenacity—what an act of defiance survival can be.

🥔🫂