by Kim Addonizio

Today I passed the house
we rented last summer.
It was only a glimpse
as I drove by—
blue door,
adobe arch painted with flowers.
In memory
your dusty van is parked on the gravel
and you’re standing at the stove
while I curl
on the couch with a book,
pretending to read,
but secretly
watching you, loving
how you look—
intent on our meal,
on getting it right.
How clearly
I can see everything:
cars passing
on the road outside,
you, shirtless, leaning over
a cast-iron pot,
me holding a few useless
words in my hands.
Nothing I’ll say
will make you stay with me,
nothing erase how you’ll turn
toward me, offering the wooden spoon
so that I get up,
and come to you, and taste
that salt on my tongue.

—from Tell Me