I think of that time I showed up
with a shiny, maroon eggplant.
I wanted to bring you something elegant- 
a statue from Benin or champagne glasses 
with stems like the necks of swans.

The eggplant was ripe,
swollen like the hood
of a Volkswagen, and gleaming
warm in my hands.
A purple heart.

And you took it as if it were precious-
a newborn baby, a glass egg
and you cradled it, ran your fingers
over its skin.
I saw your face across its back.

We orbited around the stove
in your small kitchen. We breaded 
and fried the eggplant until ripples seared through.
It leaped in the pan as if shocked by currents
and your pupils leaped with it.

Tines weaving, stitching a quilt of quietude
like a tablecloth under our hands,
you thanked me as if 
I had given you a violet moon
in the universe of a paper plate.