I peel oranges in the kitchen
and the smell soaks through
my hands. They say citrus is
a stress-reliever and it’s
5:30 now, but I cannot feel you at
my shoulder, tilted hips and
if it had been a smaller vase
I broke, a cooler day, then maybe
you’d have lingered longer in the
corner of the room. I think you
would have laughed at the
commotion, lit a cigarette inside
the house although you know
it’s not allowed. Sometimes
these things are out of our
control, like the way your mother
cooks, New York City traffic and
heart attacks at night. I read
fairytales aloud, only to myself,
but maybe you will listen. I
always did believe in magic,
what I gleaned from the TV.
“Hopeful even when it’s
hopeless.” You told me that’s
my fatal flaw. I never wanted
to be Wonder Woman, nor alone,
still I will make two servings of
spaghetti, tulips on the table
and I will eat for us both.