Kitchen

Sometimes, when we hug it feels
Like two confused pilots landing.

If we’re lucky, our bodies applaud
When we collide.

Approaching you from behind
At the counter in your AirPods,

I consider our attachment styles—
How the sight of your back

Makes me want to wrap you in my arms,
As if the knife you might be holding

is meant for me,
And kissing your neck

Might convince you
To reconsider.

I guess anxiety
Is my love language.

I sometimes worry we’ve built a house
Out of the untouched Esther Perel cards
In the basement—

That our knives, so readily on display,
Reveal too much about what may eventually
Be shorn apart—

What is hard-won
And what is just hard.

But, sometimes, you lean back
And your sigh becomes ours.

I see the slice of bread
Is already buttered,

And the knife
Is just a table knife,

And the steam
Rising from your coffee is just steam.