Our teacher handed out writing starters. She asked us to use similies and metaphors to describe it. I got a ginger root. I was in a little bit of a funk today, so my writing came out a little weird.
Ginger root
An object I would not have known premaritally.
An object I would not associate with the sweetness
Or the spiciness (a matter of measure), the drama of a sauce
Before my new wife brought it into our little apartment home from the
Grocery store. I wondered if she had gone to some new age shop,
Some retailer that sold crystals and herbs and bits or root and foreign dirt.
It’s skin like nothing. Its edges like brokenness. Textures of dirt, color of air and emptiness. Scent of an absorbent sponge.
This thing that sneaks into our grocery bags. This thing profoundly discovered now in the shelves with beans and leeks and once living vegetation.
- - -
It looks like it has a face. I can see eyes looking over my shoulder, to the corner of the room.
A horn, or a bad wart, or a millionaire’s parted hair.
Knowing the smells when caught with a knife. Afraid to bring a knife into the memory of this thing and the first days with my wife the gourmet chef.
Dirt like a bruise, like a tear, like an eye open too long without enough sleep.
An object I would not have known premaritally.
An object I would not associate with the sweetness
Or the spiciness (a matter of measure), the drama of a sauce
Before my new wife brought it into our little apartment home from the
Grocery store. I wondered if she had gone to some new age shop,
Some retailer that sold crystals and herbs and bits or root and foreign dirt.
It’s skin like nothing. Its edges like brokenness. Textures of dirt, color of air and emptiness. Scent of an absorbent sponge.
This thing that sneaks into our grocery bags. This thing profoundly discovered now in the shelves with beans and leeks and once living vegetation.
- - -
It looks like it has a face. I can see eyes looking over my shoulder, to the corner of the room.
A horn, or a bad wart, or a millionaire’s parted hair.
Knowing the smells when caught with a knife. Afraid to bring a knife into the memory of this thing and the first days with my wife the gourmet chef.
Dirt like a bruise, like a tear, like an eye open too long without enough sleep.
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