Friday, August 22, 2008


He asked if I was hungry
I wasn't, but I wanted
to watch him eat. I wanted
to sit across the table, let words
spill like wine between us,
drop like pebbles into
deep water. I wanted to see
him touch the cup, make
small smiles around the knife
and fork. I wanted to hold
my own thoughts,
reflected in crystal,
poised at the edge
of a plate, waiting
for a hand on the back
of the chair, his fingers
at the nape
of my neck.

Originally published in Up the Staircase, 2008