I will be cooking over the stove,
and the kitchen will reek
of tomatoes and love,
all acid and sweetness,
and I will think of calling you —
to speak of trifles and jobs,
hear you inhale smoke,
the line tight around my fingers
as I tell you "it’s me, Mary."
Maybe this time, you will
not greet me with the
heart clap of disconnection,
but will tell me cat names
and local gossip —
But you do not want me to call.
And your hang-ups like sharp knives,
cut through once tart, ripe, flesh
now numbed by pale scars
and sanitized time.
I want to accept maturely,
and with a strange, forced love
my abortion from you.
Years too late, it seems —
So I stand and stir
imagining how it would be
if you were guiding my hand,
your face bright and clear like
the syrup clinging
to the edge of the spoon. But I
know you never taught me this.
I learned to make preserves on my own.