Rosalyn Marhatta

I plan my best last meal on parchment paper
with India ink. It will be salmon
with caper sauce—
nasturtium buds soon to bloom—
slices of a lemon moon,
a quartet of jalapenos to serenade,
to flambé my tongue.
My meals must bite.

Once, you would have fed me chunks of curried meat,
spiced and sliced through the bone,
with notes of cilantro and cinnamon rising high,
fed me raisins with sea foam rice,
and cucumber pickle in sesame sauce.

But now, you cook for another wife,
or probably she cooks for you.
Does she glide her body across the stove,
to spark a light to boil your beans?

Today, I saw of photo of you on Facebook,
your black hair now white,
your waistline thick from years gone so fast,
they vanished in cigar smoke.