The clock strikes seven
and like Pavlov’s dog
we run into the kitchen
the pressure cooker hissing
till we push down its whistle
dinner, the thought of it
forms a ball of saliva
dancing on the center
of our tongues
And as I cap the bubbling rice
your arm crushes mine
reaching over
to taste the potatoes
dressed bright yellow
like my childhood raincoat
I slap your hand
then bring it to my lips
tasting the salt
a hint of paprika
my heart, our hearth
both warm
as your turmeric-stained fingers
slide over breast
then hip
Sliced tomatoes
arranged in circles
of longing
bear silent witness
along empty white
plates
our reflections in
tablespoons
resting on their backs
as rice water boils over
as the pot’s steel blackens
as fingers leave
yellow smudges
of desire
and we gasp
at the smell of
burning