The figs we ate wrapped in bacon.
The gelato we consumed greedily:
coconut milk, clove, fresh pear.
How we’d dump hot espresso on it
just to watch it melt, licking our spoons
clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat,
the salt we’d suck off our fingers,
the eggs we’d watch get beaten
’til they were a dizzying bright yellow,
how their edges crisped in the pan.
The pink salt blossom of prosciutto
we pulled apart with our hands, melted
on our eager tongues. The green herbs
with goat cheese, the aged brie paired
with a small pot of strawberry jam,
the final sour cherry we kept politely
pushing onto each other’s plate, saying,
No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours.
How I finally put an end to it, plucked it
from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth.
How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart.
How good it felt: to want something and
pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.
Sleeping in Late with My Mother
She apologizes. It’s not like her. She’s usually up by six.
But it’s the weekend, you tell her, there is no need to rush!
The plan for the day is breakfast somewhere and walking
somewhere else. I’m happy, but Mom can’t believe that
she forgot to bring conditioner, or that she slept so late.
The housekeeper at the discount hotel knocks. We’re still here,
we’re still here! she shouts back. Girls’ weekend, just us two,
and still we have to remind each other it’s okay to take our time.
No rush, we say to each other, firmly. I’m writing two poems
a day all summer: one every morning and again every night.
It is morning and my mom tells me, Write a poem about this,
but don’t mention I slept in so late! Just put down that your mother
is taking it easy, that your mother is taking her time for once! So I do
what she says, sort of. And the housekeeper knocks again.
But this time, my mother doesn’t jump. Instead, she leans back,
comfortable, and shouts: Still here, Still here! We are still here!