My smile is my dressing
coating the surface a creamy
red, spreading over a lettuce
bed. But it all pours from

a bottle. I’m a chopped onion,
protruding as the bunion on my
foot/hacked as a computer by
an adroit crook. The saddest

women smile as if their eyes
were cherries. But inside the rounded
glossy fruit lies a stone. And once all
the flesh is consumed the stone is spitted out
like stream from a whale’s spout.