The iconic tin cylinder
wrapped in red,
cursive letters in white relief.
Concentric circle waveforms,
raised like a seawall’s edge
concealing concentrated
vegetable blood.
A vine of tomatoes sacrificed,
condensed, stored at the grocer’s altar,
paid by card.
Vegetarian hands
grip the handles firmly.
Twist the key.
Rotate the serrated disc.
Spin the blade wedged
cutting, twirling,
around the rim.
Jagged. Lunch cut free.
The most violence I get to
relish when I eat.
The taste of ketchup soup, Americana,
bloodlust.