Whenever she ate she talked about food,

all the unforgettable meals of her past,

with her mouth full. And he’d listen

as the food in her mouth grew smaller

and smaller, and more insignificant with each

description of some towering feast

or peerless confection of her youth. Squinting

with pleasure at all those distant pleasures,

she’d shake her lovely head as if to say: Pity,

you can’t quite see them from here. And he’d look

down at his plate, then across at her lovely head

and yearn for her eyes, which were elsewhere;

for her lips and teeth and tongue, which were

elsewhere too. And take her hands, like crumbs.