Like a crunchy pastry shell, ricotta oozing,
a dusting of sugar and a sweetness untouched,
I tried to contain you, to keep your smile
from touching every corner of Hanover Street.
I wanted it all to myself:
to keep your soft cheeks as they touched mine in greeting,
to wish upon your hands as they brushed sweet cheese from my lips,
to honor your insight as you peered into me,
a view uncluttered by years of familiarity.
With a smile, you carved out my soul,
delivered with biting commentary and pointed questions;
at the same time, ricotta sweetness spilled over my plate.
I used a fork,
but wanted to swipe with my fingers,
to capture every bit of texture and have it melt in the moistness of my mouth;
and, I sat wanting to know,
while the whirl of a foreign tongue wrapped around us.
Was this night of lights and feast
merely a cameo in some greater play?
Or was it one of a series,
whereby we tease and dance, connecting in the web we’ve chosen,
similar paths converging,
ricotta sweetness holding us both to one thought?
Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.