|
|
Garlic Heart
poem by Yolanda Vega
art by Julio Mateo
You spoke in French,
and called me eschallot.
You made me quiver
with your warm hand
that searched
my garden
until you found,
plucked my garlic heart,
gently separated it into cloves
and smashed them
a pulp to roast and season
with your cannibal meal.
|
|
|
