by Geraldine Connolly


Out in the street, even the sky looks amazed
as the moon goes down, as the stars begin to wake.
Our anniversary dinner. We sit on a leather banquette

holding hands among crystal glasses and candlelit stone,
tiny perfect pieces of monkfish arranged across a bed
of pebbles. I place my napkin across my lap

and lift foie gras with apple granola to my lips.
I sip wine and stare at my handsome husband
enjoying salted cod in coriander broth, seaweed, celeriac,

below the glow of hanging lamps that light up
Portuguese Sole and Alentejo chorizo. Just yesterday
we were irritable and unkind. The word alma means kind,

or nourishing, as in our long years of love,
as in the food that is brought on black lacquer
decorated trays on this perfect evening in Lisbon

after a long walk, candlelight and verde vino.
He whispers, We have lasted a long time. But never
long enough, I reply. We devour prawn rice,

raise our glasses in forgiveness, sated,
not wanting the evening to be over,
before we head out into the cobblestone street

with its yellow trams, blue tiles, and a mosaic
set inside an alcove, a bird with a berry in its mouth.
The streetlights look like transformed moons.

Geraldine Connolly was born in western Pennsylvania. She has published four poetry collections including Province of Fire (Iris Press) and Aileron (Terrapin Books). She has taught at the Writer's Center in Bethesda, Maryland, The Chautauqua Institution and the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Maryland Arts Council, and Breadloaf Writers Conference. Her work appears in many anthologies including Poetry 180: A Poem A Day for High School Students, A Constellation of Kisses and The Sonoran Desert: A Field Guide. She lives in Tucson, Arizona. Her website is