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Interrupted Dinner

by George Espinoza


The dining table’s edge awaits your stride.

Chairs sorted, the chandelier gleams,

your flesh met by pronged maple wood.

Yet my thigh bears the purple-smudged greeting.

After rushing the fridge,

you place green peas wrapped in a peach

washcloth over my welt.

Groans slowly lulled,

your thoughts are home remedies, fixed on aid.

The evening, blunt with appetite, watches

through our windows. The cutting board stiffens.

I begin slicing yellow onions

into curled strands when

the Chef’s blade hesitates,

then lunges at my index. Your open hand,

like a broken cranberry jar, leaks red.

I ransack the cabinets until I find sterile gauze.

Covering your flesh slash,

like closing the blinds

as the sunset seeps through.

My fingers are makeshift stitches, tending

to your skin. You kiss my cheek, and we decide

to order takeout instead.



George Espinoza is an undergraduate student who resides on Long Island, New York. When he’s not poring over his keyboard, he’s grudgingly running in unpleasant weather, daydreaming about food, or watching families of geese generate ample traffic. His work can be found in DED Poetry and Agape Review.

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