standing in the kitchen 9am light comes through the windows cold strawberries and quince on the counter sugar in bags wait by the stove an empty pot sits on the burner four padded feet chase after a fruit fly two feet stand, shuffle awkwardly one hand reaches for the spoon the other for the pan and the ignitor gas ignites become flame becomes heat the empty pan recieves the fruit the sugar melts i stir, hulls dissolve, water appears vapor and aromas leak into the kitchen sticky sweet heavy and thick like tension unspoken obvious and painful its left untouched to cook Boiling, bubbling, simmering, reducing in size but increasing in intensity till its done nice thick and rich more than enough for these two people too much for this one bedroom sf apartment when its done the jam goes into jars one to my lover that night the others to other lovers spread out the tension thickly on toast, burnt in the old toaster oven leave no jam in the house for the two of us just the lingering smell of sticky sweetness clinging to everything, leaving a residue a memory thinly layered on each moment they shared each item used together so that when you pick it up your hand get dirty messy with the memory of sweetness