On Our Furst Date He Takes Me to a Fancy French Restaurant in the North End
Creamy linen, flickering centerpiece. My only goal
is to stay with this man. When he points to the vichyssoise
and chortles, what the heck is that? I don’t tell him
about the time I went to Paris on a dare, with a man
I didn’t know, because he promised we could sip
little cups of vichyssoise while staring up at the Eiffel Tower.
Don’t tell him about the wild leeks I’ve yanked
from the ground in both hemispheres, that I track
their ripe diameters on a chart on my wall. Don’t tell him
about the stage I did in New York City, where I burnt
the tattoo on the side of my palm clean off
while lifting a pan of butter-braised shallots
from the overhead grill. The pan that wasn’t mine
so I didn’t know its weight, didn’t know the cadence
of those onions. How the chef ran to save them
while I performed my own first aid, carefully spooning
the shallots into a pot with cream and potatoes and wine
and tarragon. I don’t tell him that at this time last year,
I was in bed with a man who would have licked raw chicken
from my belly button. Or about the girl who lost her job
because she favoured my coq au vin to a steady paycheque,
how she became my muse and I threw out all my bowls
so I could drink from her hips. Don’t tell him
I know exactly what vichyssoise is,
or that I have been in love fourteen and a half times.
No man wants to hear that. A man wants to hear
that this moment, under these lights, in these shoes,
with this air between us, is the only time you have ever felt
this good, this safe, and the only time you ever will.
So I giggle with this man, over everything we do not know,
and by the time I let him kiss me goodnight, I can’t tell
which one of us was lying.
by Yoda Olinyk
from Rattle #88, Summer 2025
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