Under a sky that looks like an abalone’s insides,
I ease open a bottle and let the red ripple into a glass,
like a full body - unbound.
I take a short knife and start slicing the garlic.
Tiny slivers, enough to sauté. Enough to fill the space.
It does not shy away, but brings to life whatever it comes into contact with.
I always start with garlic.
His couch, a faded blue build-it-yourself from IKEA.
Us, surrounded by creaky, wood floors.
Portraits of fish arranged around the room - the ones I picked out for him from the flea market.
One bedroom and a six pack of Sierra in the fridge.
Facing him, I sit softly on his lap, legs spread.
Pressing my mouth up against his, he tasted it.
My own space. My independence. My spirit. My garlic.
“Babe - you smell like garlic.”
He pulled away, before he eagerly went back in. But somehow I knew,
that was the last time he’d taste
I put my pointer under my nose and breathe in,
it smells intense - like garlic.
Unrelenting - like garlic.
One finger is flush up against my tongue,
I wrap my lips around it - mmm, garlic.
My mouth, still bursting with flavor
his, now burning on ginger - recklessly trying to taste again.
He vibrates with echoes of my love like my phone each month he messages:
“I’m not going to marry her.”
“I’m not 100% about this marriage...”
“. . . silence.” Does she know?
My love is like garlic, it sticks.
These days, it lingers on your fingertips,
You can try and cover it up, dull it down,
a glass of milk going after a ghost pepper, still hanging around.
Still reminiscing of the most flavor you’ve ever had in that bored mouth of yours.
