Robert Carr

Standing over the stainless
sink I slice boiled
sugar beets

The bulb I pull through
a zipper in my chest

The juice is sweet
magenta fingers stained
like a history of lies

Heat in the boil
confusion on the plate
steam under my taped
reading glasses

I fork slices onto
a bed of greens
arrange them
in a stack as if
they're spooning

Alone in my daffodil
dining nook
I refill the well-
chewed space
behind my zippered
pocket

I long to swallow