He’s been waiting for this meal.
Nick sent me the recipe in a twilight sleep
Induced by thoughts of persimmon glaze,
Broccoli’s garlicky phantom limbs;
He needed to try this with me.
Of course, nothing lights my eyes like his.
He speaks and a world falls out,
He stirs a pan with care often reserved for
Gold, or third-grade English teachers,
He eats as if starved by his own
Love-hungry taste buds.
We sit at the table, me in silence,
Him animated with the day,
Until we trade places–eventually
His eyes catch the tear in mine
And all that’s left is to sit with
The mysterious healing of salt and cumin.