About Tacos

Nov. 2nd, 2006 09:35 pm
blueimber: (Default)
last night
i sailed softly down to where i had left my things
from the night before
and in the last of the Autumn warmth
went over with these weathered hands
the simple ritual
of what it means
to be a person
working with another.
picking tomatoes out at the supermarket
wondering over cheese products
selecting sauces and ingredients
as if the shelves could hold for us what
we have been looking for.
((in my mind and i see things and i feel
then, pointing out a childhood haunt
i smile
that would have been the spot i would have selected
armed then with having gathered
the bones of a good meal
walk the gentle flight towards the kitchen
thinking of the spices
of the way the light hits the stairs
of being in this quiet space
of working together to create
a single meal.
the onion falls under the knife first
and i show him
onions and peppers and utensils and tomatoes
i show him
i show him
he asks
how large for the cheese
running my fingers over the mouths of the shredder
'this one, this one should be just fine'
i sauté the ground meat
fingering spices in the cabinet
searching for still what on shelves i have not found
my memory inadvertently remembering
jar shape shadows and
does every spice cabinet smell the same?
i pluck some treasure up out of little tins and glass jars and
we are cooking
it is easy
it is knives and throw it in the pan
it is turn the heat up and let it cook
quickly quickly
these raw things turn into something whole
he turns the beans out into a small pot
and i begin to toast the shells
while switching the meat off and the tortillas on
swirling the butter over the flat pan
that we can never escape the memories that we make of things
but that there is always the chance
to save anything
by remaking it in another image
i flip the tortillas out onto a plate and he spoons
and spreads
what he's got
wrapping it then
around a shell
and i keep them warm as the oven cools off
from having finished its toast—
we're then ready
and begin to fill them with the delicate little morsels
that sit haphazardly in darling little bowls
spread out over a table too small for this
but just big enough to manage to hold
my heart is happy
i am so proud of this little meal
everything is perfect
and we alight upon the futon
and our show begins
and like
being alive
we eat together
drink together
and share the last few bites—
when did this become so close?
how will i let it go
when the course is run and
things change?
in the meantime
i let the thought pass out of me
to do its damage elsewhere;
i am not worried about.
instead i focus on
the smell of his skin
the feeling of my nose pressed to the top of his head
the way my lips kiss perfectly the shape of his eyebrows
the taste of his wrists and fingertips
the shiver when i move closer to his neck
my pulse when he moves closer to mine
all of those things not talked about
not said
all of those little things
which indicate the intimate nature
of the kind of peace
within the same company.
what defines this?
what would this be called?
labels fail to properly signify anything
but the calm i feel when laying my head against his chest
that my tension melts at the feeling of the palm of his hand
against my stomach as we lay together
mean more than any word could ever put to it.
and perhaps that is why i find i stay so silent—
because the awe has me
the moment has me and
to say anything would
dispel it—
and no
no i
want this to last
some little time of it longer
like one more kiss before leaving
just one more
don't let me go
say to me

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