Coiled on your plate,
a harlequinned ring of
beheaded, de-bodied flesh,
hamachi-kama,
adorned with tiny twin wings
of spiny skin,
ruffled fans, as if flight still
were possible.
You dissect it, this
filigreed semi-serpent, feather
through neck muscle to find
the most delicate part,
a tender sliver
walled off by membrane.
Your chopsticks reach
for my mouth.
I take the warm white tangle
with my teeth and tongue,
let you feed me intimacy,
memories.
You must know
what you do
because
when you see me smile
you do it again.
Cheryl A. Ossola is senior editor at Dance Studio Life, a writer for San Francisco Ballet, a member of the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, and a former associate editor at Dance Magazine. She’s working on a novel and a poetry collection, plotting a middle-grade book, and regarding her reading list with despair. She holds an MFA in writing from the University of San Francisco—in longform fiction, not poetry, but as USF instructor Lewis Buzbee likes to say, novels and poetry have much in common. Visit her at www.cherylaossola.com.