23 beefsteak tomatoes, ripe on the vine
Published in PopShot Quarterly’s Issue 37
Every time your palm grips
the ripest round of my cheek,
I think of his hands
gripping the handle of a chef’s knife,
slicing tomatoes for dinner.
When I spread the threads of your hair out
across the pillow while you sleep,
those tender fans of stems
are carved from their place
again and again and then
forgotten in the scraps.
As the slick of your teeth
graze against my neck,
I wonder how much pressure it took
for the serrate to separate
pulp from flesh, body from skin.
Even as you split your legs between mine,
my breath on your breath,
those seeds spill out all over again
on the cutting board,
clinging to each other’s shape
within a river of juice.
When you turn away
to open my door,
the only thing I see
is the square of his back
leaving me barefoot in the kitchen,
sauce seething over the burner.
I’m sorry
I’m just waiting
for the cut.
