I remember
on our anniversary
my husband cooked chicken,
marinated with thyme and rosemary
"Too much pepper," I commented.
On the next years,
he did not put pepper—
just like I asked.
Every anniversary
the kitchen would smell
like
herbs
Thyme and Rosemary—my two favorites
On the sixth year,
he went home.
Eyes bright,
cheeks flush
as if he had Wine
and
a Good Time.
I kissed his cheek, he turned away.
The air blew.
I sneezed.
"You smell like thyme and rosemary," I commented, wrinkling my nose. "And too much pepper. I never like pepper."
He did not say anything,
but walked away.
On the next years,
on our anniversary
he would go home
smelling of
Thyme and Rosemary
and herbs I couldn't name.
Cheeks flushed
as if he had Wine
and a Good Time.
And all along,
I would wonder
what happened
to the chicken I'd never got to eat.
YOU ARE READING
3:47
Poetrya random notebook that I'll fill with poems and stories to keep me busy (aka feeling productive) during quarantine. Stay safe and enjoy reading! ❤️
