Butter, Olive Oil, Flour

Even the grocery list is a love poem, a prayer—

God, let me keep what I love.

Peaches, cheap. Books, brilliant—

mine so I can underline.

How aromatic the apricots,

how sharp the novels.

Together,

we have planted an orchard.

I don’t understand the word defensive:

are you supposed to just sit there?

I don’t think we have this word in Romanian;

we also don’t have a word for camel toe.

Or panty line: if you don’t see one

does it mean you’re going commando?

You always put a spell on me.

And everything I want is here—

but where am I?