Onions in butter
bubble alone &
the kitchen is quiet,
starved without
your stirring.
I’m getting better
at remembering
to salt the meat,
to peel the carrots,
to pour just one
glass of wine—
& still
I make too much,
undercook the potatoes,
curdle the cream.
On my tongue
a chunk of chuck
melts to ribbons &
I lose myself
in its heavy heat.
Like I said
I’m getting better
at forgetting
the sound of
your spoon singing
against your hungry teeth,
your silent smile
wrapping itself
around the warm
silver bowl, steam
still rising.
Andrew Walker is a writer living in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared in HAD, Crack the Spine, Eckleburg, paperplates, Apricity Press and elsewhere. He reads poetry for No Contact and pleasure.