Sarah Law

Kitchen

I peel back belief like the rings of an onion, brush covert tears with the back of one hand
while clasping my knife in the other. The creeds and the councils are so many layers to prise
and slide away: they drop like crescent moons into a bucket. The new living surface is soft to
the touch. I unwind it nevertheless, slip under the wrappings of language to something dearer
still. I will cherish whatever is there – a white nub of nothing, an atom, a pearl – knowing it is
good news, trusting it is gift. 

from a new and unpublished manuscript, One Hundred Lost Letters.
this prose poem was first published in Friends Journal.