She cooks dinner with Anderson Cooper,
tossing her vegetables in olive oil –
two slow twists of the pepper grinder.
when he pauses to smile, she asks
whether he’s eaten yet, imagines her
hands like crumpled paper serving him
forkfuls of overcooked salmon.
Four ounces of measured red wine
cools a clunky crystal cup,
mouth like a crack in her face
splitting to sip the eight dollar bottle.
After, she welcomes Don Lemon
into her home. Greets him the way
she never gets to greet her children.
Maybe she shifts her body to keep her eyes
in line with his, the closest thing to sex since 1994.
Maybe she stands up, puts her fingers
against his fuzzy television face, the length
between two knuckles, and asks
if he’d care for some dessert.