She halves it,
gives it a grin—calcified red
with tooth-seeds and acid (edged, five-pointed
star). Her melted fingers mar
the sclera-white of cutting
board, soft
and soluble and now orthogonal
to the plane of wood at her waist.
I watch the mouth widen, decant its fruit
leather from red jaws, and red
water christens her hands,
steeps itself
in the terrene of her skin,
the clefts in her elbows and forearms
that puppet themselves together
with suture and song.
She picks the gape of a mouth
apart, cuspids in a bowl,
calls for me,
bloodred to the touch.