Sestina at O'Hare

Okay – so you're not

the love of my life.

But then I can't explain

why I want to know

if you like your toast

burnt or medium light.

There may be a slight

spark: that's friction, not

forever. Say I make a toast

at our hypothetical wedding – Life

is strange as soap, you know –

as if that explained

the antibacterial orange, explained

away the bottle of light

pink cream next to it. I know

Dial's not Dove. Dial's not

what I buy. But if we lived

together, I'd have to be prepared. So my toast

would be a plea. My toast

would beg collaboration, not explanation

for colored liquids or the ways I live.

If I marry, I want to flick on the light

in the bathroom and feel comfort, not

an urge to color coordinate. No,

not soaps anyway. Do you know

what I'm getting at? Do you burn your toast

all the time or just at lunch, not

unless you're dunking it in 3:00 coffee? Explain

why I care, explain how you light

up when I ask the details of daily life,

why I work to keep this living

when I can't stand you and can't stand knowing

it's not serendipity. Two hours and my flight

takes off for continental breakfasts and French toast

on china plates. Once, I explained

how I hated china. You forgot, and I'm not

upset, but I'll have you know I like my toast

a shade lighter than cinnamon. I explained

that once, too. My life, you don't notice.