I sit as my mother taught me, legs crossed under the table and thighs rubbing against each other. He, on the other hand, is splayed out on his chair, tie loose and cheeks rough from the evening stubble I can see in the dim lights. Reaching for the wine between us, he tilts the bottle and dark liquid stains his glass.

There’s a specific way to read poetry, he says, and he leans across the table to look me in the eyes. Experiencing the eau de vie must be delicate. It is a form of writing that employs a slow seduction, slipping into the soul and hiding in the edges, teasing and begging until you feel an ache deep within you. Such words are meant to be enjoyed with all the senses, filling the nose and eyes and ears with a distinct presence before enveloping the mind. It is meant to be balmy and sultry as it grazes the tongue like an afterthought, leaving both the reader and listener dizzy with spine-tingling images.

Listen closely, he says, and I do. This is the way to read poetry, he says. And, I think, this is the way to love.