I chop sweet potatoes for my lunch,
listen to the knife against the cutting board—
thunk, thunk. The vegetable falls
in two pieces, again, again.
I scatter sharp crystals of salt
from between my soft fingers.
I twist
and the peppercorns break.
I do not know when
you or I will die—
when I’ll hear that strange thunk,
and fall to pieces—body and soul severed.
The thought of it keeps me up,
when I’d rather be sleeping.
I wonder if I will wake from my sleep,
and wonder what I will wake to.
A shudder at the shard of space
between me and death,
which hovers at every intersection,
and asks if I know where I am going.
I know the sweet potatoes will be done soon.
I do not know the hour of anything else for sure.
Yet I eat.