At sunrise I’m scrubbing the burnt drippings from the pan that I used for the roast chicken last night. And I’m thinking about when you sat there at the counter long ago, watching me roast a different chicken while you sipped retsina.

Was it a Greek chicken? I remember taking it out of the oven, its crisp skin, the scents of rosemary and garlic, the thick crust of oregano. I stood there in my chef’s apron and watched you eat in great hungry mouthfuls. And I remember when you swallowed you applauded and said I must write an erotic cookbook.

And just as I’m thinking how sometimes saying I love you isn’t enough, you walk in, bundled in your terrycloth robe, hug me from behind, and say I love you. My eyes mist up. I want to say, I need to tell you something. Everything—this leftover chicken, this empty bottle, this pan, all those years of lemon scents and oregano, the two of us—they are the breath of the same body, the beat of the same heart, the laughter of the same god. But instead, I put the pan in the drying rack and say, I love you too.

when Eve bit the apple
the gates of paradise opened
and poetry was invented

—From New Shoes, Gilmore’s collection-in-progress of haibun, scheduled for release later this spring by KYSO Flash Press

Bio: Dan Gilmore