he brings smoked fish and
wedges of cheese that melt
oh, the heat from
our bodies.
jugs of kombucha
pickled sardines.
he is proud of himself
he is courting me
he is, maybe? nervous.
i circle the kitchen table
we circle the kitchen table.
tear the bread
push the cheese into the opportunities
of the baguette
nudge the head off the kippered trout
“shall we go upstairs,” he asks
letting me pretend to arrive at
a different conclusion, a different response
as if there was any answer other
than a breathy, bursting, “yes.”
This article appears in June 2016.
