Red Bell Pepper

My lover lurks in the shade of the refrigerator,

stained-apron forgetful, worshipping 

over the cutting board

and she hums as she goes, 

coaxing water to a frantic leaping 

boil. she cooks

by power of suggestion, breaking 

angel hair with a whisper of hands.

it slithers, snapped, into the pot,

unresisting, and

wilts.

She tears ripe lettuce until it weeps green,

leeks, she severs, potatoes

she skins, gouges their rooting eyes

pours vinegar into new wounds

and sings with the radio, laughing

 she leaves the red bell pepper for last.

one stroke cleaves it down the middle, and carefully

she partitions a half into long, curving bows

for the salad. the other half is hers. 

she starts with a ventricle, crushing

its bitter flesh. it leaks watered red 

down the bow of her mouth. 

steam curls around her face, still stained,

when she strains the pasta.