I know exactly where he keeps it, where I can find
the sharpest knife for the onions. I make no promises
about the ziti. He says he will eat anything—even, he claims,

the southern end of a northbound skunk.
We drink a dry Italian red,
listen to sixties radio—

a song I recognize by the Righteous Brothers.
For once, I am not thinking about his wife,
or my husband, and when I knock my wineglass to the floor,

he says, Don't move, my feet awash in crimson.