How do you say, I like something, you say, I die in it, like how I die in chocolate, die in hanging up the laundry on the roof to dry, die in the wind that whips around it, every stiff-socked hour, every undershirt a vow, die yawning in the morning, die in the made bed smoothing its sheets down, in the kitchen making cookies, in the radio on, in the idiom itself, the wait, the mouth that tooths down chocolate chips, and crumbling at the corners, saying so good, saying cookies, and I die in it.

Maria Flaccavento