I cut open my chest with a bread knife
in my parents' kitchen. The blood of my lungs
slid down my body, trickled between
the tiles of the rosone, and pooled beneath
the refrigerator. Evaporating,
it made its way into the vegetable bin;
tiny sanguine particles snuck under
the skin of the cucumbers.

I want to take you to Frangelico's,
and on the way I will kick dirt,
absentmindedly, onto the rubbery heads
of the budding crocuses. Later, they will be torn
up by the groundskeeper of whichever house
they belong to, in favor of other flowers.
Fragrant, summer flowers.

I will order you a good Caesar salad
with bitter dressing that burns
your tongue. With eyes fixed
on my face, you fold the leaves
into your mouth and scrape your teeth across the fork,
ready for conversation. You tell me,
"I don't really like the dark lettuce."
But green is your favorite color.