Á La Carte

In the restaurant I watch you slice a hunk of meat on porcelain. Your winking knife presses to relieve muscle from fat, soft as toothless gums. The steak wants you to eat it, is begging even, like a palm. I have not eaten meat all my adult life – its juice an embarrassment, but now I cannot look away. The fillet pulsates on your plate. Would you like a bite? you say, extending a sliver on a fork towards my lips. In front of me, leaves, nuts, seeds. To be honest, I say, I’m starving.

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