pm poetry

Salmon baked
into rosy flakes,
soaked in a salty citrus
marinade-
its shimmering skin,
crispened
in our
sighing oven.

We dine
side by side,
gilded by
candlelight
and submerged
in soft music.

“You know, I never really
listened
to jazz before,”
you say,
and I’ve never felt so
recklessly
optimistic.

Later,
you hum
Louis Armstrong
while washing our
clinking dishes.