I like the way you chop garlic.
How your yoga fingers hold
each clove where tiny sweat-droplets
escape with each smooth slice.
Aromas in-between my teeth. My tongue
swells. You smile bigger. I tap my plate
As you bend over to grab my plate
there is a man sitting alone in the cafe drinking
orange juice in the background of my nearer
and nearer impending break-up with you.
By the time he has finished drinking the sun
you have split the last remaining clove.
Our bread split too.
And I remember thinking
that there is a word for this.