Somewhere inside the chirpy ditty
is an urgency. I hear it now, the hunger,
the way a woman who has spent thirty days
in the rain would long for the sun.
The way someone given only lemonade
for a week would crave a glass of water.
Judy Garland, Debbie Reynolds—
you found the sweetness in the song,
a cotton candy playfulness.
But Diana, you found the arching ache
and rendered it beautiful for even
the most satisfied woman.
The tempo, unstriving. The truth
in the need to take a breath
midsentence. Tonight, I cook
the king boletes in cream.
There is something of desire in them,
the way the sherry sings like a second melody
inside the earthy taste. Diana croons behind me,
summer, autumn, winter, spring,
and I feel the urge to breathe inside my breath,
the need to stir the sauce slower, slower.
