those were the nights of guacamole: I crushed garlic in a stone pestle,
dashed salt, added some pepper, minced jalapeno & cilantro,
never forgetting to squeeze in some lime, a bowl of chips,
& I believed I had something any man would die for.
those were the days of attic-living on Forest, down the street
from the folks with gnomes on their front lawn & artificial deer,
near the river where we could see the vineyards in the distance
& get shivers thinking about freedom, like when we went
to Los Padres Mountains on our first date. what a faraway
place to drive just to have sex with a boy I'd known all my life,
who made love as if his life depended on pleasing me & it did.
now he craves scacciata, fish stew & connoli, while I am
thinking of disappearing like garlic into avocado.
piquant as I may be, I'll never make a good Sicilian wife.