I've been leaning on the scaffolding of garlic and olive oil
ever since you left. I have no idea
what I'm doing—it's been years since I
smelled garlic on my fingers. After you'd
been gone two weeks, I rearranged
the kitchen. I disabled
your systems. Not to make it a war, not
because I wanted to win, but so I could
put myself into the thick of it. I have claimed
the cupboards, the stockpots,
the oven, the sink. Saturday nights
used to mean the smoky aroma
of cassoulet, the heavy dutch oven, your hair
falling in your eyes. I ate
your meals every day but can hardly name
the ingredients. The linoleum
squeaks underfoot, scarred
by ground-in cilantro leaves, and I parrot
your favorite curses when I light the wrong
burner. I had forgotten how thoroughly
I'm undone by onions. The refrigerator
helps slow their assault—if only
memory could be bound the same way. Your
cruellest one-liners revive
and jackknife into my watery chicken stew,
my failed remoulade. How much marjoram
went into your marinara? I'll have to make
two batches and decide how I like it best.