I fell in love with my husband for many reasons. Among them is his absolute love for food. I wrote this poem in June of 2005, on our honeymoon in Siena, Italy. It talks not only of his love of food, but of life--and me, the girl who always gets the last bite! Sienna Summer You bite right in, as you always do, oblivious to the flood of juice and pulp escaping down your stubbled chin.
While I shop for flowered skirts you smell everything around us: baskets of peaches, porcini, leather, the smoky scent of Siennese rain.
While I cringe at the pressing of bodies against mine, retreating from the foreign, unrestrained touch, you soak up voices, laughter and chimes. You do not mind the push of tourists: you are much too busy looking at the sky.
You rejoice with raucous exhaling upon seeing the tomato stand; Romas in jumbled bunches grow wild from their wooden carts. Rushing over, you wave your hand lightly over them, seeking out the one that will call you home.
I pass on the offer of a bite.
I like my tomatoes sliced, sprinkled with extra virgin olive oil and shaved parmesan—preferably with a glass of chilled red wine.
You shrug your shoulders and lift the gorgeous fruit to your lips, inhaling the remnants of our Italian summer, and bite right in— but you save the last, precious taste for me, in case I change my mind.
Sienna Summer
You bite right in, as you always do,
oblivious to the flood
of juice and pulp
escaping down your stubbled chin.
While I shop for flowered skirts
you smell everything around us:
baskets of peaches, porcini, leather,
the smoky scent of Siennese rain.
While I cringe at the pressing
of bodies against mine, retreating
from the foreign, unrestrained touch,
you soak up voices, laughter and chimes.
You do not mind the push of tourists:
you are much too busy looking at the sky.
You rejoice with raucous exhaling
upon seeing the tomato stand; Romas in jumbled bunches
grow wild from their wooden carts.
Rushing over, you wave your hand lightly over them,
seeking out the one that will call you home.
I pass on the offer of a bite.
I like my tomatoes sliced,
sprinkled with extra virgin olive oil
and shaved parmesan—preferably
with a glass of chilled red wine.
You shrug your shoulders and
lift the gorgeous fruit to your lips,
inhaling the remnants of our Italian summer,
and bite right in—
but you save the last, precious taste
for me, in case I change my mind.