By Tara Brock
was warm,” you said. You loved
the tomato soup and the butternut squash
and the grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato and red onion,
Mmmm, you said with eyes closed, “everything we ate,”
and I laughed, “was warm,” because the butternut squash from the
garden I fried in butter and
salt and the tomato soup with milk and basil we left on simmer for
twenty minutes while you cut the tomato and the onion and soaked
it in the melted cheese on the bread and grilled it in butter
over the stove and we,
a circus of arms, reaching there and there and there and there—on your
cheek—until everything
was bubbling and smelling and warm
and I struck a match and lit a candle that smelled of pumpkins and you
turned off the lights
that made the air glow warm and simmer and we bubbled with the food
that filled our bellies
until we brimmed over
and I carried you to bed and kissed you and you said “Everything we
ate was warm
and I feel warm”
and I laughed and nodded because we were full.
