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.