by Jenny Erlanger
There’s beetroot on the ceiling,
down the walls and on the floor.
The dressing’s leaving patterns
that I’ve never seen before.
The nuts and pomegranate
fly like bullets through the air.
I’m stepping over mushrooms
and there’s lettuce in my hair.
My mother’s looking angry,
I’m in trouble, I can tell.
She said to toss the salad
and I’ve tossed it pretty well.