by Jennifer Roberts
I could not know when I ordered asparagus
On that first night when I saw you coming shyly around the corner,
Remembering you had said you loved them,
Forgetting for the moment that I hated them,
That it would be the beginning of many compromises.
Many joyous years and loving accommodations later
I walk through the supermarket, dislocated,
And drawn to the asparagus as by a magnet.
Instinctively I extend my arm to grab some,
Forgetting for the moment that my asparagus lover,
My gentlemanly Parisian husband,
Is no longer alive to eat them,
Will never taste the tender spears again.
I quiver, bite my lip and feel myself disintegrating
Right there in the middle of Aisle 6,
Once such a site of joy and eager anticipation
Of his delighted eyes.
Should I honor him by taking home some asparagus?
Should I try to learn to love them?
But I learned to love him, and now my heart is broken.
A wisecracking grandmother and a native New Yorker who has taught in both Texas and Massachusetts, Jennifer Roberts is currently Distinguished Professor of Classics and History at the City University of New York and the author of several books on Greece.