A touch of sun borders your lips, 
fingerprints of light that can only 
mean mustard and that is worth keeping.

I didn't always wear such emblems proudly,
my mouth often tinged with a red 

I couldn't rub off, a weightless armor 
of love I'm no longer quick to wash. 

I take a new, perverse pride as you 
once did, swaggering back to school 
from your grandmother's kitchen,

lemon tiles studded with plates, 
coeur de boeuf tomatoes coloring your face. 

Though what I imagine are tomatoes 
bigger than a cow's sturdy heart, 

giant gems pulsed with seeds,
flecked with oregano, smoothed into sauce. 

A heavy flourish of olive oil wending 
its way through the char-colored pan,
the front door, her arms always open. 

Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Wingless Dreamer, Free State Review, Parhelion Literary Magazine, Passengers Journal, SWWIM, Marathon Literary Review, West Trade Review, River Mouth Review, Penultimate Peanut, as well as other publications.