The girl is swamped,
cutting lunch meat
in the diner’s kitchen.
Her hand slides
over the metal
slicer. The layers
come out in thin
discs onto the aluminum
foil. Her hand
slips on the blade
in her quickness
to get the work done.
The man who jumps
behind the counter will be
my father. I might never
have been if not
for that bit of blood                        
that passed between
them. There, he was
crouched over her.
She probably can’t see
his eyes for the glare
of the overhead lights.
She lies on the floor,
arm craned upward
with her hand in repose
bent at the wrist
with fingers dangling
for that first touch,
like some Elizabethean
courtesan offering
her hand for a kiss.