Poetry
There’s always room for dessert—
Pie and eggnog ice cream,
Balanced on separate plates,
We eat in alternating bites,
Sweet rhythms of shared delight.
Later, we’d wander the market—
Ginger, turnips, parsnips,
Heads of lettuce cradled in arms.
The peaches were translucent,
Like little suns behind a veil.
I would lock the door,
Retreat to my room,
My feast a secret ritual
Near summer’s fading edge.
I was fifteen pounds thinner then,
Very chic, I thought—
A shadow of myself,
But glowing with iced melon
Eaten quietly in the tea-room at work.
Paris—ah, Paris—
Was everything I’d dreamt.
I stood on the hotel balcony,
Hot chocolate in one hand,
A chocolate croissant in the other.
We were hungry, and
Everything was for me.
It was a fine moment.
A moment that tasted
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