By: Arel Kirshstein
I think I’m gay.
There’s not much more to say.
It’s honestly no big deal:
I’m still the same person
with whom you bustled in steamy
kitchens of platonic love. Back then,
I thought I loved how your cheeks
burned red from our flurry to and fro,
near our oven’s fire. Back then,
You hated the turmeric
turning hands yellow, but I loved
its rich semblance of saffron
against simmered tomato. Back then,
your long black curly hair,
unevenly dusted white
with powdery flour, caught
specks of sticky dough. Back then,
your feminine almond eyes
were the only eyes I could see;
except now they do nothing for me,
but bud the occasional almond tree.