AROMA

Sometimes there's a hunger
that cuts deep, when the rumble
in the belly becomes an ache
that can be felt in any distant

cell of the body, when thoughts
all transform into steaming
thigh of well-seasoned chicken
or a bunch of succulent grapes

a bed of wild rice a slice
of pear or apple a loaf
of bread warm and fragrant,
when every conversation

is a recipe a restaurant review, when
each song is a simmering
pot a singing kettle the rattle
of silver on a banquet table,
when the time of day is always

breakfast, lunch, or supper at seven
sharp. Sometimes I watch you undress
to see the way the hairs of your
skin catch the light, like pressing
face and palms against the outside

cool glass to watch a steaming
plate served on white linen, strain
to hear the sound of champagne
poured into crystal. Sometimes
I close my eyes or turn my face away
imagining that the act of failing to see
might quiet the rumble in my belly
but the aroma, that scent of love
is strong.

© Joan Barton, 1998

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