Summer Greens

My eyes slid down to her fingers,
a blur of white slim extensions
tearing into crisp green,
startled by the violence of their bearing.
Clip, snip, snatch,
the torn pieces falling into the bowl,
ragged edges of paradoxical life,
satin smoothness roughed by necessity.
At times I feel like those ripped greens,
shredded to nothingness,
the wrath of her words striping,
disguised in soft velvet tones.
I watch them fall,
listlessly plunging against cool terracotta,
remembering the feel of cold linoleum,
the times I fell from the blunt of those fingers
blurring in whirls slender white.
Her voice cracks in mocked silken whispers,
my fingers digging deep,
procrastinating on the verge of discovery,
flashing to times when this was ritual,
slowly placing the ladle against her palm.
Vinegar, sugar, salt,
I can taste the tartness,
the bittersweet remembrances sticking
to the underside of my tongue,
sharp pungent punches of harsh flavor.
Her thin arms tremble,
fingers tight on the handle,
evoking ghostly apparitions,
deceivingly weak in manifestations
of a long banished demon,
she always appeared frail.
The sounds of the ladle scraping,
screeching against the sides of the bowl,
long trails of maddening anguish,
my heart hammering in revulsion,
she used the scratch along the walls,
her lips shinny as she licked them,
my body bracing for the moment.
I wipe my sweat slick palms against
the rough fabric of my pants,
dying for the taste of nicotine,
wanting to feel something besides
the cool green broken recollections,
wanting to exile the flittering moments
when she and I were two
intricate opposing forces,
joined by blood,
split by pain.
I watch her mold the greens,
shaping the crisp freshness,
watched as they turned to dull gray,
limpid congealed masses,
sagacious thoughts of irony brimming.