When I look at my body,
its knobs and foliage,
sinkholes and scars,
furrows of flesh,
I reflect that
going back
to the far mists of Ireland,
to my O’Reilly
and Dolan and Kennedy forerunners,
to Queen Maeve herself
I am
mostly potatoes.
The first solid food
spooned
into my baby bird mouth
was potatoes.
Twice a day on the table
my mother
slapped down
great heaping bowls
of white fluffy clouds
laced with butter and salt.
In Heaven the Holy Family
eats nothing but potatoes.
Sacred Potatoes
washed clean
in the tears of Christ,
cooked to immaculate perfection
by Mary.
In the kitchens of Purgatory,
semi-devils
burn the potatoes
on purpose.
Hell is worse. Hell is
no potatoes at all.
– Mildred Tremblay
