Chef slams the skillet down and barks something

about being low on eggs. Four tickets in my apron

means he’ll need another carton. Not that I’ll fetch

it for him. I stay on my side of the kitchen.

One time, a nurse said Saddam Hussein saved

bread crusts for the birds. In jail, without

the distracting temptation of dictatorship,

he watered dusty plants, another’s task.

I dated an ex-con. On the anniversary

of his mother’s death, I saw him walking

out of town to her grave. She was buried one

state over. Months later, he raped me.

The Dalai Lama said, Aggression is an intimate

part of ourselves. Once, he said, It’s well-known

that good feelings only cause boredom,

and gently put you to sleep.

Like people don’t know the price of fruit, chef says,

when I hand him a ticket for a yogurt parfait. 

I scoop raspberries out of the plastic tub. 

Jesus Christ, he says, and slaps my hand away.

You have to take the ones from the top first,

or the others below bruise beneath their weight.

His calloused fingers cradle each berry—

his touch gentle as if they’re newborns asleep.