Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.
Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the
blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like
still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they fall asleep in church.
. . . “folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that, who’s plate was that?”
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 