I told him
I’d like to die in Italy—  
A last meal rich with sauce and starch,
Wine, sweet and sharp
And a sunset setting over the vineyard

He asked,
“What about dolma in Greece?”

“With you?”
“With me.”

"I could eat—"

Wearing my blue dress—
the one that shows too much skin—
it’s a myth:
Artemis and Endymion,
sleeping sea, silent shore—
never touching, always returning,
sharing dolma in Greece.

He wonders
if we’d get along
in person,
in conversation,
sharing dolma in Greece.

Not that it matters.
But we’d be fine—
friends
sharing dolma in Greece.

The sun never has to set,
dancing, laughing, sharing
Dolma in Greece—