In that terrible heat,
we made our feast. The oil
golden with spices, the skillet’s
wicked, dissolving whisper
reminding us of every old burn.
Savor of warm flesh. Umami.
It was very good. From your fingers,
the salt was a blessing. I had to take
my shirt off. To take the paring
knife from your hand. I wished
we had Bordeaux. We were trapped
in a kind of silence. When the song
ended, it started to play again.
