Meal prep

Like freshly painted lips,

aged knife gash on tip

of my thumb rosé-

stained from chopping beets, my

nail beds cling to old

fond—the good stuff a la

the French, that crumbled

char left in the aluminum,

and although scrub brushes

subdue charcoal mountains

into mesas or sometimes,

accidentally, quarries,

the pan is perpetually

scorched—and my dedos

clutch the blade I

warped pushing too hard

on raw squash, its point

curved back at me, a claw,

it leaves squiggled scratches

instead of uniform lines on

cutting board limp

in sink, and foggy droplets—

speckled with crust and herbs,

tinted by olive oil o-

verflowing the disposal—

use plates, bowls, silver as

ladders, wander over the edges,

out the sink, they stain

the peeling laminate,

the scars on my skin,

the pan too long in

the oven, blackened

from forget, more fond

for my fingernails,

my tips seared pulling

it out of the heat.