Love is going out to kill a turkey in 20-degree weather so that your wife can tend other things. And love is still liking the man who is grinning and handing you a large turkey to pluck in 20-degree weather, and it is the rueful smile in return. Then it is catching each other’s eyes over the table, biting into turkey but also into the body memory of cold fingers touching, the grin, the rueful smile, the puppies wrestling over feathers, the bucket steaming from the boiling water, blood in snow, the times a turkey attacked our daughter and another chased the meter reader. Eyes that hold each other for a moment, tongues that feed bodies on sensation, on memory. You eat life together in tarragon and cream.
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