Grating Carrots | Nancy Christopherson
I’m always scraping my knuckles.
Those sharp Us raised above holes. The carrot
slips through easily enough but then
sometimes a bit of my flesh. Sorry. Hope
it didn’t get into your salad. But like those
wafers at communion this is holy territory.
We should just bury it in our
mouths with our eyes closed and say grace
before getting up from the table.
Nancy Christopherson lives and writes in eastern Oregon. She spent many years living and working in northern Arizona and loves the Desert Southwest. She is the author of one book of poetry, The Leaf. She has work forthcoming in the literary journal XANADU. Her latest manuscripts, tentatively named Canyon Poems, While the Moon Floats Ranch, and Lungfish Swallow Me Whole, are in the works.