Marblehead

not to be in love with you I can’t remember what it was like it must’ve been lousy James Schuyler 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.