They eye me the way I once
did you, reminders of red wines paired
with seared cuts,
sugared plums, spiced ***
and saccharine frosting
whipped to delicate peaks.
They are stringy and shiny
with bulging green bellies and
for a moment I imagine them
bursting free from their pods and
spilling into the aisle—shining like
wet eggs under the fluorescent lights.
White-knuckling the cart and chin just
high enough to gaze at the produce
from the corner of my eye, I push
past, I push on, I push away from
You know I can see you watching me,
you’d said that night when I tried the same
move on you, voice like a snake
and mouth red with merlot
you moved to me and you whispered
your song; eyelids flitting like moon
dusted moth wings, and guilty, wet
heartbeats blooming across our faces—
In another aisle now I release
my breath. Ribs unfurl like sails and
nothing ever happened.
I never called you back.
Symphonic excursions and gourmet
paranoia ceased, and as time moved on,
so did I.
But I will never cook with fava beans again.
Feb 21, 2022
Feb 21, 2022 at 1:10 PM UTC
They eye me the way I once
did you, reminders of red wines paired
with seared cuts,
sugared plums, spiced ***
and saccharine frosting
whipped to delicate peaks.
They are stringy and shiny
with bulging green bellies and
for a moment I imagine them
bursting free from their pods and
spilling into the aisle—shining like
wet eggs under the fluorescent lights.
White-knuckling the cart and chin just
high enough to gaze at the produce
from the corner of my eye, I push
past, I push on, I push away from
You know I can see you watching me,
you’d said that night when I tried the same
move on you, voice like a snake
and mouth red with merlot
you moved to me and you whispered
your song; eyelids flitting like moon
dusted moth wings, and guilty, wet
heartbeats blooming across our faces—
In another aisle now I release
my breath. Ribs unfurl like sails and
nothing ever happened.
I never called you back.
Symphonic excursions and gourmet
paranoia ceased, and as time moved on,
so did I.
But I will never cook with fava beans again.
For my poetry class, the assignment was to write a persona poem. This is a piece from the point of view of Martha Stewart regarding her short-lived relationship with Sir Anthony Hopkins. She left him because she could not separate him from his role as Hannibal Lecter.
