I release the top of it first. The carrot's cap topples onto the cutting board. Free not to be whole, I dissemble its rigid orange cone; it feels raw when the air hits it's new wet cuts. My daughter brings me a dandelion from the field and then blows hard on it: its soft white parts dispel from the core, beautiful for the first time. They are manna with their bowed backs to my breath - they push out crazy, undone of their clusters. They are too swept in the breeze for my eyes now, but now I feel a pang as I watch my chest bone rip in a clean slit. No mess, no gore drips onto the floor, but a gentle lesion irrupting unplumbed to see thriving viscera. I need an opening, I need a porta that relinquishes out of this body. Bereavement flutters from this cut into the sky's open fatness like pained bees, carrying the salt from my eye on their backs and fever from my fiber.