I’m stirring some soup. Or spaghetti.
Or something. You walk up behind me,
put your arms around me.
I turn, wooden spoon in hand, dripping red.
I tell you, ‘You just touched my breast.’
You protest. I tell you, ‘All men are abusers.
Even you.’
The smell of the soup – it’s tomato soup –
is sweet and strong. You take the long spoon
from me, smile, move it to your mouth,
add a little salt.

 


(From 'Put Your Lips Together')