Breakfast
We almost died that day. I remember the car swerve,
your father’s Polish curse. I remember how good
the bagels were at breakfast. I remember how crisp
the water. And the laughter of your father, over tea.
I remember his baldness and his beard.
The tall ceiling and the dark table.
I remember your father’s lover, how ugly
and how loving, as she ate. I remember
the conversation, about eating. “One should eat
slowly. One should chew one’s food slowly,
as do monks.” I remember most the smell of bergamot
on your skin, as if you had taken a bath
infused with sachets of Earl Grey. Surely all breakfasts
have been failures since that day.
