When you said you eat chocolate Kisses
because they fold onto your tongue,
all-a-piece, like a nipple torn from breast,
I grazed a thumb against my shirt,
craving that emotional color each fruit
wears to the occasion of its ripening
to be inside me; a liquid note,
like desire’s nude eyelid.
You said you didn’t read
The White Hotel’s first pages except
to feel engaged with me in my absence,
it did it for you, dining off of me,
the adult mouth rediscovering the breast,
where sex is cooling bread;
a bite of sour-dough that puffs
against the ceiling of your mouth.
I heard you say: I want you
to come over so I can eat you out,
I took in your words, and first,
it was my ear-canal that responded.
Now, you say you would like
your free hand inside of me
while you eat soup or read your paper?
I understand this:
when I speak with you,
I place my hand between my breasts
so you will be forced
to look into my face:
my face is my body’s flag,
we are, propelled by one engine.