I am chopping twice
as much for him.
My mother would recoil.
Enchilada casserole?
Pico de gallo?
Rosemary chicken?
Mole? Lasagna?
You’ll never see
him throw in less than six.
I stuff him full
of crushed cloves,
pickled cloves,
roasted cloves, minced.
We laugh territorially,
swap garlic grins.
What better proof
our breath and mouth
are only for the other’s
nose and lips?
He feeds me what he loves
and I return the service.
What better plan, he says,
to make a vampire sick?
O roaring garlic midnight!
O morning-after-garlic kiss!
Today we are sure
to live forever.
2015