Cull

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