Sarah Bricault

this potato
 
It hides in the back of the cupboard,
shoved behind cans of tuna and
the occasional mixing bowl.
My kitchen isn’t the most organized, but
this potato doesn’t judge.
It sits there in metamorphic silence,
shoving forth roots in the darkness,
searching, searching for the dirt
that must be around here somewhere.
It is dark and dry in the cupboard, so
this potato thinks itself buried.
I am surprised when I spy it, my hand
searching for that last can of chicken soup.
I pull it forward, and he says
that potato has gone bad.
I think of rot, the brown goo that
I sometimes find with forgotten
vegetables, and I say --
No, this potato has not gone bad.
This potato — is badass.
Imagine the optimism, the unfailing
urgency to propagate, the faith
that dirt and water are just beyond
reach. He looks at me.
At the potato. But it’s wrong. Throw
it away. You can’t use it now.
I shrug off the dismissal, miffed on behalf
of this potato. I tangle my fingers
in nascent roots, trace the dendritic
searchlings and secret it back
into the cupboard. Perhaps I will remember
to buy it a pot, to fulfill the wishes of
this potato. Perhaps not. But I
am giving it another chance to grow,
I gift my future self the unfailing optimism
of this potato
and all it might become.



a piece of epiphany
 
I am a collector, a nester.
I surround myself with little things that speak
to me. It is an instinct, I suppose, to
find kinship with a mug, a spoon, a rock. For me,
each piece I hold close is a piece of epiphany, a piece
of the feeling where the world makes sense. I choose each
by sight and sound and soul, because it sings to me
a single note of the perfect song. The bond is
not important, in the grand scheme of things, but it is
a shard of everything. Everything I long for in the world,
in a partner, in a friend. A shard of pure belonging.
This poem is about little things. Like the song your
mother sung you at night. Like the sweet nothings
your lover whispers in your year. Your father’s hug.
Your grandpa’s laugh. A mug of tea. The little things
that make a life. They say the orchestrated events
are what define living. The exclamation points of
the story. But give me a comma, and I will show you
a softer truth — that that’s more to come. What am I
but a collection of commas? So I became a collector
of commas. Let me breathe the moment
with you, knowing that another one follows. The soft
undulation of time is beautiful. It has no expectation,
no pressure, no socially determined value. But it is
a shard of everything. Let my life be
a mosaic of mugs and moments.
 
 
 
Sarah Bricault has a PhD in neurobiology and currently works as a postdoc in that field. Her fascination with the mind and how it processes information often finds itself in her poetry, as do themes related to mental health. Sarah's work can be found in Brown Bag Online, High Shelf Press, and elsewhere. For more information on Sarah, check out SarahBricault.net.