The Cilantroem (or, A Fresh Bunch of Love)

Some earlier evening, I’d made a joke
about only wanting to be given a bouquet
of flowers if, instead, it were cilantro.


You remembered, as you often did,
and months later in your kitchen, you spun
around to face me,
eyes like empty stockpots,
and put gingerly into my hand
an artfully arranged bunch
of that good good soapy stuff,
and I filled you to overflowing.


When we'd both cooled to a simmer,
in full view of the acorn squash
and the quinoa, the dried cranberries
and the green onions, your cat
and all the rest of god's creation,


I leaned over
I parted my lips
I bit at least half
of the leaves off at once,
and I showed you my purest smile -


feeling very blessed,
like we bless our meals
and the hands that made them -


that your favorite color
was green.