Creamy film coats the outside of a peeled potato.
Turns it brown if you leave it on the counter.
Stays behind if you wait too long to wash the used knife.
It leaves a map on the blade.
Creates faint white lines on the resting cutting board.
Turns to chalk if left to dry.
Scribbles of starch mimic the layers of earth that
once buried the growing, golden thing.
It hides beneath thick skin until exposed,
coating my fingertips as I slide the pieces
of potato from the knife into the frying pan.
Each one pops in oil as the outside heats up.
And as the cubes flip and crisp,
the starch sticks.