Midnight Pasta

Happy and hungry heedless of the hour,

our ghostly reflections in the window,

we shimmy around the kitchen, one light

above the stove, salted water

already at a boil. Midnight, and you

drop lemon pepper linguine into the pot.

I shave garlic paper thin, lick my fingers,

the raw burn of it hunger on the tongue.

You light the candles, pour some dark midnight

red wine. Youssou N’Dour low on the stereo,

I tip the anchovy tin, chop the fillets into paste,

and zest a lemon, the air suddenly citrus fresh

with hunger. Midnight, and giddy, we dance

around the kitchen. Olive oil, garlic,

anchovy paste, a pinch of salt, and a palmful

of red pepper flakes—kiss of fire—warm

in the pan. Garlic pungency rises,

anchovy paste melts, and it’s a mouthful

of midnight, a mouthful of wine, and back

to the pan, two spoonsful of tomato paste

swirled into the sauce and stirred until

it’s as dark as the darkness outside. Midnight

in the kitchen, the windows steamed over,

a scoop of water reserved from the pot, and you

grate Parmesan, shred some basil, its licorice scent

laden with hunger. I drain the linguine

before it’s quite done, slip it into the saucepan

to finish with the water and zest, and stir

until it’s glossy and glistens. Hunger

heaped on our plates, we stir in the basil,

drizzle the pasta with lemon and oil,

and lift the first happy forkfuls of midnight

to our lips, our hunger like the darkness outside.