When he looks at her
he remembers her in the shower,
shampoo suds trailing down
her back, between her cheeks
to her inner thighs.
When she looks at him
she tastes cigarettes
and golden apples.
“You don’t talk like this with
your friends?” he asks, meaning
her husband. “No,” she answers
quickly, “We agree on everything.”
He orders sweet onions,
she prefers salted pork.
They eat, tasting
only their breath.
As they walk into the
dying light of the city,
they put their lips together
to see what comes apart.

Kalehua Kim is a poet living in the Seattle area. Born of Hawaiian, Chinese, Filipino and Portuguese descent, her multicultural background informs much of her work. Her poems have appeared in Calyx Journal and ‘Oiwi, A Native Hawaiian Journal. She recently completed the chapbook, Beetmilk.