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.