The Meadow 33 Little Ears Kelly M. Houle The harsh words still ringing in our ears sting like the wedge of light in our eyes every time the door swings open, but when it closes we begin to see each other again, searching the table for signs of all the ways we are the same—two glasses, water, a slice of fresh lemon, napkins we place on our laps, the kind of bread you have to break then hand to the other, the plate to collect the pits of bitter olives we tolerate on our tongues, the songs not so different from the day we first kissed, the way we sat in silence afterward, taking sips of wine, confessing our desires to the dish of little ears in butter and garlic, we wanted to share, take turns slipping the curled folds into our mouths, we closed our eyes, swallowed them whole.
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