of pieces not too large, not too small

leaking onto porcelain untouched since 

you left. the slices almost wear the memory

of your hands, but they are mine alone, 

a bitter reminder.

māma,

why is it i who grips your knife now? my knuckles

camouflage, pressed against the plate. the blade

cuts into sickly-sweet flesh, yet still not nearly

as deep as you cut me. the juice runs down

my throat, the wet ache of tears carving a familiar path

across raw skin.

i imagine the 

honeyed nectar leaking 

into your scars, the seeds we used to plant 

growing fruit in your wounds, mending your heart,

which sleeps colder than the winters 

that ripen the persimmon tree.