(Untitled)

Your apron
once white
(still in some places)
is bordered with rosettes of
dry crimson.
Your eyes tearful,
my eyes ecstatic,
look on
at the tools of love your hands hold.
One hand holds a curved knife,
a cleaver adorns the other.
A chopping block sits in stoic acceptance
in front.
In the dim light of the cottage,
our faces intent,
we inspect in front of us
what once was.

You say,
(half pleading)
"Don't you suppose it's done?"
I say,
(half euphoric)
"Don't you think we can do a finer job?"
Reluctantly,
upon my insistence,
accepting the crimson rosettes of your apron,
you turn your blades again on
the minced blooded lump
that once was
my heart.