Alan Birkelbach

STILL LIFE WITH YELLOWJACKET AND TOMATO

Some days are about burstings.

Three buttons undone on the top of her linen dress,

the sun warming her, starting at her neck,

beads glistening on her ice tea glass,

        moisture that does not seem to fall.

Tenebrism puts the handle of the knife in shadow;

only the blade gleams.  The fresh-picked tomato sits, illuminated.

A yellow-jacket lands on the red cedar table,

bends his legs once, stops fluttering his wings.  

I shut my eyes.  My fingers brush the flesh of her palm.

His eyes are closed too.  She does not need to move.