On his table is a cup,
filled with a need,
to caress her receptacle,
of weights and measures,
without such
the sweetness of her soul,
he could not know.
His own hands mix sugar and flour,
vanilla, and longing.
His mind must be precise,
Or her lines may flow out,
to a flavorless poem,
a definite defeat of taste.
The lemon cake she likes,
smooth dark frosting,
rich with butter.
His mind needs more than tablespoons,
Of sugar and flour, cups of it,
Mixed with a pinch,
Of a sweet sultry gaze,
Sifting through his lover’s day.
Till with his hand he cups her chin,
And turns again,
to mix her mouth with his.
This woman is his table,
And he the cup.