The peeling of potatoes
brings a dream
about my mother,
in the kitchen,
its dimensions not mistaken
for any other childhood rooms,
cousins´ houses, rooms
from other lives.
Faded cupboards, grease
on the counters.
Black and white feather
belly of the cat.
My mother throws two red tacks
onto the floor, one straight
one bent. One, perhaps, for the cat
which used to collect
small things underneath
the couch: lego pieces, buttons,
lost rings.
Two red tacks go
unchanged on the white-tiled floor.
They are for passing the time,
for divining her fortune while
she prepares eternally
the evening meal.
mabel lee 