Written By: Amanda Johnston
I palm each spud in my hand
like a rock or newborn baby’s head.
Under rushing water, my wrist turned
up toward the blade, I cut away
eyes and skin leaving them exposed
to stir and mash into one fragile side.
But I don’t always peel them. I want the brown
bits to flavor my pot with gritty earth
and work rooted in darkness.
About the Author
Amanda Johnston earned a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of Southern Maine. Her poetry and interviews have appeared in numerous online and print publications, among them, Kinfolks Quarterly, Muzzle, Pluck! and the anthologies, Small Batch, di-ver-city and The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South. The recipient of multiple Artist Enrichment grants from the Kentucky Foundation for Women and the Christina Sergeyevna Award from the Austin International Poetry Festival, she is a member of the Affrilachian Poets and a Cave Canem graduate fellow. Johnston is a Stonecoast MFA faculty member, a co-founder of Black Poets Speak Out, and founding executive director of Torch Literary Arts.