On special occasions

like Saturday mornings

we drink coffee out
of the french press.

You bring it to bed
balanced carefully
with the two mugs
in your other hand.

Too lazy
or excited
to start the day
we pull wool caps
over our greasy hair.

You put down
the coffee mug
and replace
my hand
with it
in yours.

Out the door
around the corner
down toward
the river,

My camera
balanced carefully
with your fingers laced
in my other hand.

The air isn’t quite warm
but we can smell it,
the promise of it ripe
as our impatient bodies
while we meander
down the riverwalk.

and showered
after trading
catnaps while we
wait for the other,

We argue about
what to do next.

The couch is
big enough for
you and me and
your gangly legs
and two books
balanced on
knee caps
or a mess
of limbs and
an entire afternoon
wasted watching TV.

Another cup of coffee
rested on my hip,
my hand laid in
your other hand.

Later still
We watch the sunset
out the window,
my hands rested
on the sill
your hands rested
on my hips –
balanced like
birds on a high wire
here on the 13th floor.

And then we dance.
Hands clasped
around wine glasses
laughing with
heads thrown back
when we realize
we forgot to eat dinner.

Suddenly, its spaghetti
thrown at each other
instead of the wall
while I sit there
with my wine glass
asking you to stay
until tomorrow
so that we can
trade places and
you can stand here
while I make soup.

I promise
I will put
about this day
into that recipe.

Later still
Dishes done
because I insist
you take my hand
and pull me back
down into that cocoon.

Do everything in
your power to make it
nearly impossible to
get up the next morning
and make you soup.

When I was a little girl, the only requirement for the man I married was that he owned horses. High bar, I know. In college, I used to joke that I would marry anyone for the right price. Over the last 5 years or so, I have tried very hard to find the person who would sit, in the kitchen, and watch me make soup. I’ve written more poems than I can count about it. I’m not sure what it is exactly about it that I find so appealing. I feel connected to every woman who has come before me whenever I make soup. So maybe it’s all that estrogen… And then the idea that someone would sit there for the hours and hours and hours that it takes for a good soup to come together?! That’s dedication, right there. And the conversations you have over a pot of soup are more sacred somehow. For all those reasons mentioned above.

How silly I am.


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