I’m just home from an icy drive
and the first arctic blast has frozen
the floor through the crawl space.
I sit in the big old robe
with socked and blanketed
feet on the ottoman.
My husband is working late.
In the corner, the wood stove
reaches for me with aromatic heat
as if I am the one
craved.
On top, the last of the chicken soup,
that final glow of chili and garlic,
tomatoes deep and bright, flickering
onions, all velvet on my tongue now.
Inside, flashes of mystery—
red finger-snapping oak
erupting instantly
from crusty ash, flames
beating at the window
with lust. And something
else I cannot fathom
about desire: my hands
cradling this bowl,
just right not too hot,
and splayed in the soup
two thigh bones and a knuckle,
surrendered for me, to me,
and my pleasure in this death.
