the glass spice jar of rosemary sits in the corner,
bait to prying fingers and
warm dough rising.

a set of hands banish her from her home,
open her up to greedy senses
and hearty-moans.

and then suddenly,
her graceful throat tips,
grinds of rosemary fall into buttered flour,
and she settles around moles of dried cranberries,
specks of shimmering sea salt,
and passionate, cherry pink fingertips.