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.
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