There's a firmness, a near violence, with which you chop vegetables, at odds
with your nature, but maybe I'm deluding myself. Is that my head on the
block and are you a modern day Madame Defarge transmitting
secret signals to forces out to usurp me? The vegetables,
sized down, are scraped into a steel bowl large
enough to show your determined
reflection. It's probably how
they emptied the baskets
in the Place dé la
Revolution.
My move away from meat might end stickily.
A native of Ireland and a lapsed neurologist, Ivo Drury lives along the California Coast. Poetry published recently featured in Red Eft Review, Rockvale Review, Trouvaille Review and Schuylkill Valley Journal.