Cooking

He says he has to hang up to stir the soup.
I want to be more important than soup.
Silly, this being jealous of a meal
simmering in a kitchen I can't see,
but who would claim love is reasonable
especially in its early days, when hunger means
new skin to touch, new tongue and thrust.
Let the broth boil. Let the vegetables
stick and burn. Give me words
hot as the flame he holds the saucepan over.

No. I know better than to believe
desire can be food enough to keep us.
We stop talking and he goes back
to the kitchen, to the lip of the spoon
he'll run his finger along for a taste.
Such a good cook. Later, when I'm with him,
he'll lower the ladle into the pot—
steam rising, mouths open. Then the wait
will be worth it: all our greed on the table
and every bowl filled.

 

Poems by Melody Lacina: