From the kitchen I watch Red
work the turnip patch with Holly.
She leans against his chest
and pulls bulbs out of earth.
I peel an orange and lick
rind cheese from my fingers
absorb the diesel and tide of his khakis
the random cowlicks of his hair.
Wanting is a palm print on my collar
a thumb in the divot of my neck.
On the stove, greens ripple over to the floor
waves of potliquor swell my tongue.
I do not turn away
but use Mama's white linen napkins
to swab the murk with the sole of my shoe.
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