My friend Betsy won't make rice anymore. Tiny
toddler hands fingerpaint
sticky white grains
grind pale beads
into blue carpet, she says.
On hands and knees
picking mashed, tacky
blobs of boogers
out of baby hair and nude upholstery
rice seems a practical sort of phobia.
yet, as it dries under her table,
starchy water again escapes
pops and spits
and resists..
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