Slicing summer tomatoes in a sleepy kitchen,
she hummed something that could
have been a hundred years old
or a song that played last night on the radio.
Golden waves obscured her face,
and I couldn’t see the smile I knew was there.
Couldn’t see the way her lips turned down
at the corners in delightful, exquisite mischief.
Dripping fingers arranged thick slices
on a plate too formal for this moment,
the crunch of salt and pepper grinders
breaking the silent, ardent air.
When she tipped her head back, popped
a ruby half-slice between her kiss-swollen lips
I couldn’t help but make my way to her.
I caught her smile then, a laughing look that said
every word my heart needed, and then some.
Soft curves fit against all my angles
and I wanted summer tomatoes,
the press of her warm, sleep-quiet body against mine
for the rest of my life.
Sarah Stoltzfus Allen 