Man Apologizes, But by Lydia Weinberger

She has learned how to wilt greens by watching

The way sweat cooks the grass stuck to her feet;

Wonders if that’s how it would taste to singe

Herself with an open-mouthed kiss: salty, sweet.

Discovered roasting beets as an artist

Mesmerized by how the juice stains her hands,

Partitions flesh to scarlet chunks of ink Peers the earthy peels into rugged fans.

Craves the way leeks must be cleft apart;

Removing the grit like a mother cat, The fur and fleas catch in her lungs and heart

Swallowed through her fingertips, burnt and flat—

She has learned to love her separate sphere,

How rosemary burns, the scent of it here.

Lydia Weinberger is a junior from Raleigh, North Carolina studying Political Science, Studio Art, and Creative Writing. She is currently in the process of re-addicting herself to coffee.

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