My wife’s white-socked feet
polish the gray vinyl tile of our kitchen.
She spins from fridge to stove
while I stand at the cutting board,
cilantro on the altar, a sacrifice
to the tiny tongue-throned gods
of our taste buds
who, later, will convene in a kiss
like the pantheon on Olympus
or fallen angels in the lake of fire.
Maybe it’s the garlic,
the pungent onion, the ginger singed
in hot oil spreading itself
over the base of the wok,
or else the cilantro’s scent
wafting its message, I am green,
I am the essence of freshness,
like wisps of smoke from a censer,
this choir of fragrance chanting praise
in harmony amid the stained-glass hues
of carrot, tomato, spinach,
whatever progeny of earth and seed
she’s found in the crisper,
while rice simmers on the back burner,
white bubbles pressed together,
rising, lifting the glass lid till it rattles
and, senses buzzing, she breaks
into motion, some jaunty bounce,
knees bent, arms raised, the dance
of a child who has not learned
to fear, of a priestess
enthralled, of a woman in love.
She stays the knife beneath my hand,
pulls me into her movements,
and—two bubbles conjoined—
our bodies make a single swaying temple.
From Love’s Labors
By Brent Newsom
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