Making Israeli Salad
by Karen Webber
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.
Garlic kisses slip from their skins,
bruised and smashed.
Tomatoes ready to burst, bleed
ruby juice onto the cutting board.
Never sweet onion, only the crying kind.
Cucumber and green pepper complete the triage.
If the knife isn’t sharp, get another.
Cut me smaller, dice me
No tearful goodbye,
only a yellow pepper on the counter.
Chip and cube so fine, that the salt
clings for dear life.
What about the lettuce?
No, not for Israeli salad…
What about the Chuppah,
and the boy and the girl we made?
I improvise making Israeli salad—
no recipe—just handfuls of color and
an obscene amount of salt.
“You’ll know when I’m done with you.”
Can scallions substitute for onion?
I can’t stop shaking the salt.
I feel myself floating in the Dead Sea.
Long squeeze of lemon mingles with oil,
stinging my cuticles
Dai, enough already, the pieces are small enough.