let me tell you about a moment i remember
in a life where they are the cheapest currency
devalued, and
not recognized at most major
airport money exchange counters
i remember a pause we co-wrote.
you were cutting garlic
you always did it better than me
i was stirring tomatoes until the bitterness would leave them
when our moment came
a pause leached of the sharp taste of half-cooked tomatoes
we stood inside each others’ overlapping arcs of energy
without looking behind me to where you stood
holding my existence with such sweet lack of effort
us wrapped in each other easy as pie
interlaced fingers of dough touching in the middle yet
open to sunlight, receptive to moisture
knowing that to turn to you would be like coming home
but staying where i was
because i knew you wouldn’t leave
that i wouldn’t find myself alone in a hot kitchen
stirring former tomatoes, now stripped of their skin
and without the soft embrace of garlic to enhance them
no, i knew you’d still be there
coming up behind me, at any minute to pass over
those small white bits
your hands fragrant
you, holding me still,
Ilse is an uncertain, sensitive English teacher who has lived and taught in Uganda, Laos, and soon China.
