Kathryn DeZur

Slices thin as forgiveness,
as gratitude, dredged
in beaten eggs and bread crumbs,
soaked in tomato juice, tomato
paste, tomatoes fresh
from the chopping board,
softened by heat, seeds
still gritty between our teeth.

We disguise our longing in layers, 
fat and salt and herbs, abandon
ourselves to fruit and fire,
white plates poised, centered
on woven placemats, flanked
by forks and knives.