the way your hair curls upon your neck
when you throw your head back and laugh,
how my glasses slide off my nose and yours don’t,
'it’s a noble nose!' my aunt always says,
your large hands on the steering wheel,
i love the way they feel on the small of my back,
i am so glad for the pickling lessons,
grandma insisted i take as a teen.
i have made good use of the jam jars
she stocked in the garage
hoping the mango would yield some day.
your nose still looks as sharp in vinegar,
and your hands still look clean,
but your heart remains as black as ever.
but best part is that look in your eyes,
when i raised the ginsu,
on that dappled afternoon by the stream.
does not fit in any jar but is fresh even today
perfectly preserved in my head.