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.