She feeds his starving hands
Closes trembling fingers
Around ripe nectarine *******
The nut hardness of her *******
Make stigmata wounds
That never heal.

She fills his famished mouth
With her lips and tongue
Living Hors d’oeuvres
Marinaded in blood and saliva
Then drives him head first
To graze in the garden south of her navel.

He eats of her fruit
Drinks from her stream
Till he is satiated and spent
His cheeks and chin
A colour field of pulp and nectar
On a canvas of Frankenthaler.


Behind velvet doors
of her private gallery
She mounts him.
He is famished no more.