curling them around

    i hold their bodies in obscene embrace

    thinking of everything but kinship.

    collards and kale

    strain against each strange other

    away from my kissmaking hand and

    the iron bedpot.

    the pot is black.

    the cutting board is black，

    my hand，

    and just for a minute

    the greens roll black under the knife，

    and the kitchen twists dark on its spine¹

    and i taste in my natural appetite

    the bond of live things everywhere.