Iron Hot Skillet

It's not that I don't dream of you — I do.
It's that when I put garlic in a pan I start to think of what's next. Wine and butter reduction. Brussels sprouts and beans and bacon then salt and pepper and of course last night's leftovers. They diverge.

It's that the flame bursts into existence and is engulfed by darkness. Then the night just keeps on rolling.

Stop everything you are doing and add salt. 

Add human heat.

Stir. 

        (I am full of love and terrified of bursting.)

Simmer. Wait, just wait.

Now then, if you have waited long enough, try to remember what you can. 
The day the words vamos aquì became stronger than I love you, or, equally, I hate you. The roundness, wine-sweet and
    coupled with wanting.

By now everything should have a lovely heavy consistency, even love. It is the gift of  mouths and mouths; mouths full of memories, savoury and hot.

This poem first appeared in the Eat It anthology of Sex, Food and Women's writing, edited by Nicole Baute and Brianna Goldberg.