Autumn woman, her blue trousers rolled,
in the kitchen with cigarettes &
Coca-Cola. The smell of cumin.
An elaborate moment, unfold-
ing like a tender plea, strand by strand,
& when it comes undone, I pretend
she is my wife & that she is sure.
& I pretend she has no others
waiting somewhere & that another
way of doing things might be the cure
for this thing which has been too much named.
The rice-pot lid sets up a clatter.
She brushes back a lock of clean hair
& lets go with her easy laugh. "Aim
that thing at me," I think, & shatter
when she turns my way, for I'm laid bare,
sometimes, just by knowing she's alive.
"It's almost ready," she says. "Are you
hungry?" I laugh and say, "Oh, yes. I've
been hungry ever since I met you."