But the kitchen doesn’t know
what you don’t know.
It keeps its knives in a drawer.
No signs from the veined cabbage head
left out on the counter,
pale and dumb as the moon.
No telling which bell pepper cut apart
will bear a smaller self, stuck to the core,
hopeful, embryonic, near green.
No, no knowing in the dark
which egg
holds the furtive spot of blood.
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About The Author
Laura Spagnoli teaches French at Temple University.
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