Savor

No sweetness in her smile.
The crust at the corners is salt,
Brine-soaked and cracking.
It tastes like an ocean,
And I could lick a path to the ducts
But the skin there is clean.
Like flowers pressed in crisp linen.
Like the echo the perfumers lose
When they’re tape-recording nature
For their detergents and cleaners.

It’s all salt and spice,
Frothing over the fire.
The sounds of the broth-waves collapsing
Like peals of laughter.
The twinkling of tiny silver spoons of soup
That fill us up, warm us up,
One soft sip at a time.