This is where I pray, at the kitchen sink
baptizing vegetables for soup. 

Onions. One hard pill on outer skin reveals
moon bodies that pull tears like tides.

Carrots. Soft brush to coax away clinging
earth, polish their hearts of gold.

Mushrooms. Damp cloth, gentle touch
to wipe away stubborn night. 

Dark greens. Cold bath in clean sink,
shake dry, set aside. 

My hands move through chore of cleaning
to monotony of chopping.

My mind rests as it never does when I
sit still. The rocking knife lulls all thought.

I am only eyes for colors piling up,
only ears for the sizzle of oil.

When the vegetables meet heat, they exhale
sun and rain and good clean dirt.

I breathe in Dad’s garden, Mom’s kitchen.
I am fed before I take one bite.