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by Alma Christl Call

My hands smell like onions.
The chicken breasts between us.

Well, eat up! I say.
She stares at her hand

I have molded around a fork
until it shakes open.

The fork leaves dents
in her fingers.

You have to eat.
Her head jerks up.

It is the cumin sharp
in my nose that reddens

my eyes, blurs my vision.
While marinara bleeds

with broccoli juice across
the white bones of her plate.