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Hungry


by Daniel Passamaneck


Ravenous, he mows the lawn of her salad; despoils her delicate capers.  Olive oil coats his lips. 

 

Her thumbnail traces the edge of the bowl. 

 

D'ya have to be so rough?

 

He stares at her across a field of greens, fork dripping with readiness:

 

If you don't like my rough hunger
go feed somebody else.

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