When a woman says Do you love me, she means
Trace the curve of my cheek with your warm hand.
When she begins chopping onions in the kitchen to hide
crying about your fight last week, she hopes you’ll notice
the unlit match between her teeth.
I don’t want a speaker suspended over your head
playing some stupid love song in the evening light, or even
a night out, dinner and dancing and good Chianti wine.
There is nowhere better than the gritty pavement
beside my car, the bed of pine needles in the woods,
my thin mattress when you’re there to warm it.