I will eat paella and pan con tomate until I die, if you want me to,
salt clawing and clutching corners of my mouth
like your newborn child’s tiny hands around her mother’s finger.
But we don’t speak about it in the kitchen. We let infidelity churn
in wedding pots and knead curved skin like bread dough.
We savor a kiss. You feed it to me in spoonfuls, in haste
and wipe the edges neatly with your napkin before you go.
Your apron is burned in the morning. I do not ask why.