Does everyone fall in love
with their ex–brother-in-law?
I did for a moment.
He came to my house to eat
this man-cook who knows
the fishmonger, the fisherman
(never a woman in his world)
buys the tuna, slaps it on the grill
maybe fires up a few potatoes.
Asparagus or greens and there’s dinner —
the best I ever had.
Oh, what would I make
this tormenting god of the grill?
I opened a cookbook from France
a country he would never see
and followed directions.
Peppers, heaps of bloody red ones,
scorched until their skins popped,
could be peeled off, their painful
tender, raw flesh exposed
silky and tender
wet, vulnerable.
Soft and precious.
Into the processor
steel blades whirled, sliced
spun them with more olive oil
than anyone but the French
would dare use.
Oh, the delight, better than a kiss
on my own raw, red tender lips,
his sigh when he scooped up
the last pool of it.
“My, that’s good.”
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