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Julia Bird

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But They Wouldn’t Want Us to Go Hungry

I watch him tip his long neck back
and ease a tuck of ham, an eighth of fig
from the point of a cocktail stick. A sword swallower. I applaud the
                                                                                                trick

             then he butters me the torn half of a brown bread roll,
             nods the waiter over, orders a bottle of his usual.

Two rainbow trout on whiteware plates –
his swimming for the water jug, mine towards the salt.
The horoscope tonight leaves little room for doubt.

             The lamb comes rare in the middle, the outside seared.
             It almost falls through the bars of his fork as I lean to take  
                                                                                        my share.

Sacher torte reveals its treasure in the mouth,
comes with cream or icecream if that isn’t rich enough.
Which of you has never wanted, just the one time, both?

             Sugared with freckles, his wrists and the backs of his hands.
             They sweeten the taste of a dark roast blend.

Though the bill is dutched, the coats are fetched,
on the rucked up tablecloth there’s one glass left.
That final drop of port has whirlpools at its depths.

 

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