Becca Yenser

I boil the bruised artichoke

and later watch him suck

the tender leaves, scraping

his teeth across

the meaty flesh.

Triumphant, he tips

his chair back

so I can see he’s done.

Once a man left bruises

on my forearm

in the shape of fingertips.

He was mad

I had a birthday.

The same man sucked

at my neck,

leaving a bruise

the shade of an eggplant

in late summer

when you’ve eaten

everything else you could

from the garden.