Finding carrot cut into rounds
rather than chips,
rather depresses Nigella;
not because it's too easy
to reconstruct a carrot
from its rounds,
and she likes the harder task,
but because rounds make her think
of girth and thin,
of waist measurement;
of quartering bodies
and Anne Boleyn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem