After-taste
There were three cakes.
We still talked then.
He held out a small piece,
raised it to my mouth to taste.
I took it carefully between my lips
and acquiesced.
To avoid crumbs falling
on the skirt I wore,
he set a slice on a paper napkin
with such delicate attention
I was in awe.
From his hand to mine
I placed it on my lap
and, like each word
he had ever said,
picked up
crumb after crumb
with a damp fingertip.
Jane Angué writes in French and English; work in both languages has been published and is forthcoming in literary journals on line and in print. She was long-listed for the Erbacce Prize 2018. She is currently putting together two collections.