It started with cheese sticks on a Saturday morning
reached on tip-toe from the right-side drawer of the refrigerator.
Peeled plastic independence on the way to see
Ariel fall in love just one more time.
Then onto slices with tomatoes
roasted with olive oil dripping over capers
for lunches with my mother.
Let us indulge, she says, every time she takes a bite.
And cheese sticks, again, on a Saturday morning,
or rather a Friday night that didn’t end. Biting through
and not pulling. Too tipsy to wish for webbing
wrapping around my tongue.
Next onto pizza made with homemade everything
a promise he made to feed and cherish the work
we have done. Our attempt to do better, to fulfil
the tasks we laid before us.
No, back to cheese sticks. Pulling at the strings to find what even might be joy.