I’m left with an excess of heirloom sweet potatoes, hefty but long like tough winter carrots. So well-roasted the sugar is seeping through the skin, leaving dew on my hands as I handle their girth. I size them up, thinking to run my knife through tip to tip, slitting them open lengthwise if that alone will manage, chopping the largest ones in half first before peeling them apart. There are tools made for smashing them in the bowl, but I’ve chosen to use my hands instead, forcing their flesh through my fingers until everything is smoothed out, working through to the thick sludge to mash out the tough lumps, blurring the edges, blending them all together. Ready to move on, I’ve got milk and eggs standing by. Time to see what I can make out of this heap of a mess.



I want a man who likes my music
and gets the lyrics too
who dances
because he can’t help dancing

and who makes me dance
when I feel like staying
in bed all day
waiting for the hours to pass

overcome with grief and longing
feeling sorry for myself
for ever wanting
some man.