Medium-Low by Claire Heinzerling

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.

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