The plaid woman picking oranges
smells like dinner for her husband.
I wonder if I smell like selfishness,
Nutmeg, parsley, paper towels, garlic press—
the plaid woman probably remembered her list.
She probably knows how to make biscuits from scratch,
and has more than one use for her almond extract.
This is the way, this is the way, this is the way
of wedded things. This is how we come to be
lasciviously eyeing the cheese graters. This is how
we come to be wrestling with plastic wrap,
trying to save the leftovers. This is how we become
eternities of Teflon queens, lovingly filling the ice trays.