Kitchen Hunter

Your spiky Spock ears could intercept
alien transmissions and signal in lost kitchens
miles away. Your eye sockets could home
large meatballs and hold milk like a cereal bowl.
Your watery lips closed like an elevator
to protect drool and spit from escaping.
I can see my bushy eyebrows and squinted
eyes in the reflection of your red lipstick.
Your nose vacuumed up a gravy scented cloud
and pointed me in the right direction.
Your nose long like a jousting weapon
capable of prevailing over any kitchen contender.
I fell back to observe your juicy buns.
A trail of shedding hair floated down
like snowflakes leaving a path of stranded
spaghetti noodles that could lead us back
to the living room. The digital photo frame
on the kitchen counter revealed a seventh grade
version of you, but regretted it when you sent a flying
hand in the photo frame’s direction.
Your hands are the ones seen holding beautiful
tacos and hamburgers on fast food commercials.
Your hands are powerful  enough to unlock any
Fridge’s mysteries. Your brain is elusive enough
to choose between mustard or ketchup, chicken or pork,
cold pizza or salad. The fridge door swung open,
slamming the counter and shaking up condiments
hiding from us. The freezer door followed. The icy finish
of Rocky Road ice cream shined like 24 fresh carrots.
I extended my arm and retrieve the prize.
I ran my finger along the cardboard, carving
up the frost. I pulled  my glistening finger tip away
and reveal a smiley face.  She pressed closer
to me raising up her finger. She etched in a heart
to the right of my smiley face.
It’s not too bad falling in love twice.    

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