I remember how we’d stop
on the way home
to pick up a bottle of wine
or something—10pm already, and so glad
to leave that dinner full of people who, suddenly,
we liked so much less
than one other.

This late, the aisles lay empty
and between florescent light
and pale, illuminated tiles,
we’d set off separately.

And while I found
whatever we were looking for,
you’d find
discount sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch,
or a frozen couscous salad
which you wouldn’t eat,
but was too cheap to pass up.

Is it strange to admit
how much your frugal hunger reminded me
of my grandmother, who left behind a house
full of expired canned goods?

I’d imagine both of us long dead,
your couscous still lingering, icebound, in the freezer,
and someone saying Oh god
can you believe they never threw this out?

This may not be particularly lyrical, but it’s true: each time
I saw how tenderly you placed the lettuce
into the cart’s collapsible child seat,
I fell a little more in love with you.

EMILY FRISELLA is a freelance writer and editor currently living in London. She blogs at www.untimelycriticism, and her poetry, essays, and criticism have appeared in The Rumpus, Foundry, Pedestal Magazine, The Plath Poetry Project, and The Adroit Journal.