The Vegetarian

My grandmother cannot eat meat
but grows beetroot in the allotment.
Plants it like a grudge,
lets it grow rich
in darkness.
I love the look of it bleeding out
in her china blue serving dish.
I love watching her suck her soiled fingers,
knife in one hand,
as my grandfather reads the paper.
She likes it soured in vinegar,
places the raw chunks
in my stained open-sore mouth,
teaches me to acquire a taste for pain.
I bite its fleshy tenderness,
like sucking on a wound,
the heat of its beating bitterness
like a little mouseheart
warm on my tongue.