“I slice oranges in the kitchen.
The countertop worn, notched
with the story of the knife.
I’ve been reading Ovid’s “The Cure for Love.”
You circle my waist with your arms —
kiss the back of my neck.
I remember who we were —
the girl and boy on the front porch
cooling our heels on our way
to the grave.
We believed we could make something
in the dark.”
—Rishma Dunlop, Ain’t No Cure
