At Market Basket last Wednesday,
I was overcome by the need to hurl
myself into the potato display.
That raw, starchy fume—
burned ham, table wine,
swallowed syllables.
It smells like a memory
with its elbows out,
wool sweaters, sweat,
cigarettes that clung for days.
I ache to press my fingers
into each tuber’s dirt-ringed eyes,
half-wishing they’d scream.
Grief hits like that.
First, slow worms
against the cheek.
Then, a rapid boil.
