Every two minutes, an American woman is raped,
her body forced open in the time it takes me to tear
this organic tomato to its pulpy center and bite in,
letting juice run down my chin, stinging.

This tomato a celebration on my tongue reminding me
of the night we spent six hundred dollars on dinner for two,
as that man in Colorado loaded guns into his car.

Food arrived on silk pillows: tiny, purple carrots,
radishes like marbles-fairy vegetables-and a miniature,
individual loaf of bread for each course, and each course
with its own silverware and army of people washing in the back.

As we clinked our glasses together,
he checked his ammunition and gas mask,
and people wondered, popcorn or candy.

This morning, I ran through a forest kept tidy
by rich people like me, Eminem shuffling smoothly
through my iPhone. Somewhere in China,
a young man folded his ruined hands in his lap.

My palms were raised, open.
I imagined texting prayers straight to Heaven: OMG. OMG.
Thank You for this world of green grass and suffering.

Francesca Bell