Sandwiched

by Christine Adams Beckett

I can only peel carrots

In one household

At a time,

Stripping the tender root

Of its dried outer skin

Grooved in dirt

That used to support

Its structure.

I sweat the orange flesh into

A silky comforting soup,

Sweet Vitamins made more complex

With onions and celery and garlic,

Slowly stewed into a velvet cream

to nourish my lover.

How I wish I could divide

The batch, separate it into

Six billion tupperware containers

With Matthew’s help, his five loaves and

Two fishes an accompaniment

To my own world’s soup.

My heart feels as powerful

As that of any god

Presented to me

For comfort and strength.

It can envelop the entire planet

From pole to pole.  It touches

Every longitudinal line.

It swells with affection

For every hungry soul.

Yet its physical reality

Is shackled behind this desk,

Writing the words that I hope

Will pay for your carrots.

You are one in sixty billion,

But a lovely start.