A poem, for you and your fathers, by Arra Lynn Ross from issue #41.
Planting Potatoes with My Father
That April I came back from Prague, alone,
my heart torn. We dug trenches in the rain
then reached inside our small, brown-paper sacks
and pulled out cut-up chunks, each with an eye.
We must’ve planted at least a hundred: red
and white, some purple too.
Did he tell me,
or I tell him how potato shoots grew?
If placed inside a covered maze, all dark
but for one small pin-prick at the other side
the growing eye will nose past dead end trails
to touch that tiny hope, that sweet spot, sun.