From Across the Café

If this poem were the bowl of pears,

persimmons and pomegranates,

on the table pushed flush

against my sternum, pinning me

to my seat in this Italian heat,

we might never grow old, plying

each other with day and reasons

to devour. Desire must be chewed

before it’s consumed, fingered by

the soft pads of want. On this plate,

I need only balance the sweet

with the savoury, the ratio of pepper

to oil. Today we are alive

in summer. Unencumbered.

Today I won’t write poems

about yesterday, only your face,

plums, jam on bread and butter.

The pitch of pleasure that presents

itself like weeping. Tomorrow hangs

like the apricots from the tree

just outside the window. Let the wind

choose our fate. Come, eat with me.

Today, the only question, do we

choose yoghurt or cream?