Your lunch break begins with my feet sole to sole, knees out to the sides,
crotch splayed open like an orange slice, a scored mango, any out-turned fruit
ripe on this hardwood floor, which rubs at my spine as you come
at me clothed, your shirttails out, your pocket change rattling, your unshaven
chin gnawing at my neckline, at my cheek, to my mouth, where we stay lip to lip
until you fumble into me with the gasp of a drowning man,
which has my feet at your backbone, my legs around your hips
like a parenthetical, an aside: your balls slap my ass while the microwave beeps.
Our arms reach a swan dive, my hip plates meet yours, and you don't breathe
again until the wave catches you up and coming. Outside, the traffic swells,
the front-yard cherry tree burns in the lunchtime sun, and your soup waits, hot
like the trickle down my thighs when I finally arrive on my feet, dizzy and starving.