Tomato and Philtrum
Slicing tomatoes I think of my wifeıs
hospital date one morning soon.
Professor Morrison plastic surgeon
whose long fingers I admired last week
when I sat by her in his room
will attend to the tiny cancer
just visible now between nose
and upper lip (hers gently shaped
as a cupid's bow). He taught us the word
philtrum: dimple between two pillars.
This he will slice with care
removing a small circle, mending it
with skin from near her ear.
His respect for her philtrum
seemed that of an artistıs
for my wife's creator's work.
Philtrum, she tells me later,
is where an angel visited
the unborn in the womb leaving
secrets of heavenly pre-existence
sealed by the angelıs touch.
Friday it goes under the knife.
My hand is steady, knife sharp - pierces
tomato skin; cuts out the green stem-circle.
Sun-red flesh yields itself to me.
Professor Morrison has pale skin
as if never exposed to the sun.
Max Richards
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