Let me be the one
black rock in the pinto beans
picked over and soaked all night
at the bottom of the pan.
Unyielding to onion
and salty water, rattled against steel
as the pot boils dry, smoothed
with drippings of a long dead hog.
Clatter me in the veined porcelain bowl,
to hide on the spoon, hard against
your teeth, pressed between
tongue and lip. Let me be in the palm
of your hand, unscathed.