Katelyn Botsford Tucker
We ate sliced tomatoes with olive oil
from a plate in the center of a glass table
where my grandmother sat to my left
and my mother sat to my right
and the tiny, black-and-white TV
salt-and-peppered our dinner
with the five o’clock news.
Today it’s sautéed heirlooms
and thinly sliced garlic
over ricotta on toast, and
I think I’m very grown. The
knife I use is so sharp and I
would never have been allowed
to use such a tool as a child.
Of course, washing dishes
it slips from my hand,
and the blade meets the webbing
between my thumb and pointer finger
at just the right angle to slice through
and I feel the sting radiate
and I don’t know whether or not
that scar will heal.
And whether or not
tomatoes were a delicacy,
or we were just poor, savoring a bit of
blood around a table.
Katelyn Botsford Tucker is a teacher and writer. She paints, is often caffeinated, and absolutely terrified of outer space.