a string or cord, spaghi its plural, pots

boil their diminutive as four of us

twirl the wiggly strands in a thymed sauce—

a history interlacing us, stories

fire up as sips of Montepulciano

unlock a cache of wild joking, some tears—

it almost feels as if we’ve reached atonement

for those months, eons friends remain apart

(so easy not to call, or were we afraid

of too much closeness, the implicit trust

our confidences will be kept?). Take hold

of the slippery offerings, savor them…

until the spell breaks: less al dente snap

and sever than a fraying when the bill

comes due, a reckoning we’re meant to split.

Standing up, I catch three other looks

perplexed as mine on why the ties won’t hold—

why not another wine, some cheese, a dolce,

laughing lone thoughts to brief consistency,

cinders banked against night’s partings,

a fleeting afterglow? But it’s Let’s not wait

so long to get together as we spill

back into separate heads and homes and hopes

leftovers from this evening might not spoil.