Tonight I used an old boyfriend’s recipe.
Your friends raved. One woman,
a sweater wrapped around
her shoulders, let her perfume
waft through the house like it was invited.

During dinner, she took off her shoes
under the table, reached for the bread
and laughed while her boyfriend worked
his jaw. You handed me the basket
holding one hardened roll, asked for more.

After dinner, I lost you for an hour
while I cleared the table, started on the dishes,
blew out candles. You startled me when you
came in behind her, bringing in big
handfuls of plums, dropping one,
a small bruised thud on the floor.


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