Saturday, February 5, 2011


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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