On Monday I first had you;
our love was fresh and rich and new,
as that first meal I chose to cook,
Greek, I think, with lemon juice,
and garlic crusted on the roast
I served to mark our carnal joy.
On Tuesday I made tacos,
all crisp, informal, spicy hot
as that red, flowing, slinky dress
you wore when you first caught my eye
across the smoothly polished bar
at Dunsany’s a week ago.
On Wednesday teriyaki
was served with care and sticky rice,
in tiny lacquer bowls and plates,
with fine rice wine in little cups,
to dance and sing upon the tongue.
I smiled and ate, and fell in love.
Thursday a Moroccan feast
seemed right to fit our tone and mood,
with saffron and with cinnamon,
and honey melting in my mouth
between the sheets of phyllo dough.
My god, that night our love was sweet.
Friday I used black bean paste,
to wed you to me, heart and soul,
the dark, fermented, bitter-salt
that soaked each bite was just the sauce
to set our love above, apart
from any other joy I’d known.
Saturday was Indian,
a curry burning like the flame
that burned within my heart and loins
if I but chanced to think of you
each day at work, or in the car,
and made both work and driving hell.
On Sunday I made pot roast,
conservative in salt and spice,
and then, assuring that there were
still plenty of your ample charms
left buried in my freezer chest,
I took you home to meet my folks.
(This poem was previously published in Decompositions.)
Marcie Lynn Tentchoff is a writer/poet/editor from the west coast of Canada where she lives with various critters and a whole lot of trees. It has been said that her view of love (or perhaps her outlook in general) is just a bit twisted.