You take off your black
motorcycle jacket, hang it
on the back of a chair. It’s cold
from our walk along the sea wall.
Your pockets jingle with shells.
While we were gone, you left
the stove on low—some things
you do make me so nervous.
You graze the surface of sauce
simmering in a pan, shiny fingertip
held out for me to lick, you say
“What does it need?” Maybe nothing,
maybe honey to unbitter the lime.
Later that night you’ll bury your face
in my belly and sob. “I’m sorry,”
though I don’t think you are
always talking to me, my love.
But now lobster steam billows
up the window, you gulp
purple wine, your pinky sticking out,
and the round olives are the green
all green things aspire to be.
Rebecca Lindenberg, “Marblehead” from Love, an Index. Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Lindenberg. Reprinted by permission of McSweeney’s Publishing.
Source: Love, an Index (McSweeney's Publishing, 2012)
Source: Love, an Index (McSweeney's Publishing, 2012)
