So glad we're all different.
Glad my husband loves to cook,
to be artist-in-chief, mixing colors, playing with potatoes,
creating something new out of carrots, squash, spinach, leeks.
So glad my chore is his passion: no need to pity him
standing by the flame, spoon in hand.

So glad we're all different—
some of us talkers, some listeners. Some skilled at
fixing a toilet, others at cutting hair. Some who design,
others who supervise, organize, plan, sell.
Or want to be president of the United States.

So glad, yes, when different means simple things
like cheeseburgers, sushi, shawarma.
But, no, not when different means divided,
a country in chaos. Not when it means hate,
the language of blame.

Glad, mostly, when different means nuance
in the ways we say I love you.
How some gift you words, wrapped in bright ribbons.
Others pull you close, speak with hands, arms.
Some kiss your senses with color and spice, steam rising
from a bowl of soup. They caress with salmon
baked in garlic, mustard, white wine  
while others lean forward, listen to your questions and
concerns, listen like they're holding and stroking
what boils and roils deep in your core—till the writhing thing
rests like a sleeping cat, at peace in this place
where different has no meaning, no relevance at all.


© by Lori Levy.
Used with the author’s permission.