Were You Lonely, Cupcake?

Deeper dishes hidden in the pantry in the dark

she asks:

How Do I Love This Body?

How do I...love?

Does she roll it out of dough.

Consumer of the hot flame fuel I watched your tabletops grow

in the corner hearth fires.

Baby, you are so beautiful,

and hungry.

There are biscuits for the open window in your being, what was empty

what was lonesome can be clotheless in the shower, in the hot steamy mirror.

Do you raise your eyelids to witness?

Sink-swim again in your kitchen.

the marble-ish counters are hospitable houses for making warm mouths,

salivate, tempting

bite by bite of bread, butter, butter, butter: more butter.

Stay hidden, always remain silent and self-assured

not a one will know about the cranberries, or the chocolate-chocolate loaves

cooling in the sills of your kitchen.

Aprons fold so nicely over our tummies, tie it.

Kiss the delicate touches of saffron, of basil.

You are god's tastebuds.

You are his fingertips.

You reach for a fried-up crusty crustacean

he's dried-up and useless, crawling home.

Who will hold your sorrow besides a cookie jar?

a tempting salutation from a mushroom top, or a congruent cocktail made with

champagne ...and St. Germaine...

Balsamic reduction, redux, influx.

"Hey mister you can have me if you hand me your heart and your belly.

I'll saute you into submission.

Pour your journey into me, I'll swallow it

and kiss away your tired."

I saw you eating your dinner of rice and gruyere in a closet,

under mother's cashmere,

crumpled were your tears.

Pilsner in hand, a loaf in common:

Are you able to eat this? Do you think its delicious?

This is serendipitous.

Denver Poem

You were
an uninjured soldier, or misanthrope.
(Hello white rabbit, have we met?
Have we fallen faster or caught ourselves? We float
hearts above cozy petticoats.)
You were arms-length, never close
enough to encompass, it was a
warm lamp,
an on and off
coordinated-quiet symphonic conversation from the bedroom tramp.

Dear Denver, you were a sullen night alone over boards of fruit with suede-ish flats, cigarettes on your breath, in your air. Oh, your nights are long. Take me, for these lights on- off are sorry when spent alone. Ask her the root of her why. Ask her, the root...ask her the root of her why. Ask her the logistics of her existence. She is infinitely unfolding tiers of body-parts, toes to motion of days spent with or without a dime or a kiss. Your sludgy streets rekindle longing dead inside her double-breasted vest. Those pockets she emptied for your performers, your juggling men and their tricks. The tall-tall buildings with the rounded corners are the judges of this nonsense, they point and hiss at the semantics. Her interactions were soft and deliberate. Watery in Confluence Park, picnics of decaf and midnight milk; she may pack up and leave you someday.