We wait for the onions to caramelise, to turn
from sharp white corners, translucent,
to turn to something else.
The heat is low. In time they will melt
like wax figurines pirouetting a final ballet,
white to clear to butter to brown.
We will make soup.
We will melt gruyere and toast brioche and feast
till we are belly-full and sated. We will lay on our backs and sigh.
I think about tarragon, flakes of black pepper
and his hand is in my hair. The kitchen linoleum is
sticky and the brown paper shells crinkle
beneath me. I sigh.
We wake to the wail of the smoke detector and
our onions are charred pyres. Dinner is toast, the
dregs of brandy and the new maps
we have left to explore.