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.
No comments:
Post a Comment