The Cutting Board

My hands shifted slightly as the board
Came out of its slot in the counter,
Stains cover the oak grains

Crimson from a sliced finger
The night I'd found out
About the girl who'd taken
My husband's heart, and with his
Went mine.

From the grease spilled at Christmas
The oak shimmers.
A year ago, with family and friends,
And a massive roasted turkey.

I love the ruby droplets smeared
From the fruit smashed by small hands
My little girl who glowed when she made
Raspberry jam all by herself.

My mother wants to replace it,
Because it's old, stained, and worn.

I laid the board on the counter,
And started pitting cherries -
Dozens of wine-colored little gems.

          SHAWNA WILSON