cutting greens

　　by Lucille Clifton

　　 curling them around

　　 i hold their bodies in obscene embrace

　　 thinking of everything but kinship.

　　 collards and kale

　　 strain against each strange other

　　 away from my kissmaking hand and

　　 the iron bedpot.

　　 the pot is black.

　　 the cutting board is black，

　　 my hand，

　　 and just for a minute

　　 the greens roll black under the knife，

　　 and the kitchen twists dark on its spine

　　 and i taste in my natural appetite

　　 the bond of live things everywhere.