Dead plant on the countertop

Her angst minces my onions,
carves into the skin
and out the flesh
and into a nice salad
to serve to company;
after church, of course.
Eat me! There’s no whittling today,
this is the county fair “devour your plate and fork and everything else, too” consumption contest.
He’s not a savory sap,
but I’ll remember that the next time I spend years on a commode
just thinking about Him–after dinner that day–it was great!

(Cry / cut / sever / fingers gripping me: the dead plant on the countertop.)