liver and onions

On a day like today, I finally make you liver and onions,  

a dish you’ve craved for months but I hate.

I nervously try to make it for the first time,  

and you smile, saying it’s not quite like your mom’s.  

No wife can match the dead matriarch’s touch,  

but I’m relieved I didn’t ruin it.  

Your smile reassures me,  

so I say, "It’s nice," and promise to make it again—  

while swallowing without chewing,  

because I can’t quite bring myself to like it.  

I think to myself 'I need the iron,' so I keep going,  

forcing it down as if it’s something I owe my body,  

but also something I owe you to try.

We talk about earlier, how you took down 

a bird’s nest from the garage,  

we marveled at how perfect and beautiful it was,  

vowing that, should the birds rebuild,  

we’d let them stay.  

And for a moment, we suddenly hugged—

a welcomed dining room apology. 

It was just two days ago I cried so hard and long

my salty tears left my face raw.

I’ll wear make-up tomorrow for work—

because you said you wanted to end our home too.

Please know, if we were two birds, 

I'd be already out gathering more twigs 

for the rebuild and even live in a nest

made of liver and onions if it kept you