We do it with knives in hand,
blue tongues licking the bottoms of pots,
steam fogging the windows from hearts
of artichokes being strained.
Hearts are made to be carved
out, cooked soft, slathered with butter,
fork-stabbed and lifted to another’s
open mouth. We say we are starved,
lonely as an onion in its skin,
say we are starving when what we mean
is that we want to postpone
the inevitable, which is inedible,
however we dice
it, and so we make—as it consumes us—
this love we call a meal.