Dinner starts way past
midnight. But candles render
useless; the light, the moon,
the sky illuminates like skin,
golden brown, cooked

to perfection. I found the right

mix—ice in a form of smile,
the friction of skin, the aroma
of unyielding perfume in the air,
washing the odor of burnt
meal served for love.

Then bed was a melting ***,
for tonight is a delicacy
in which you—I—become
a main course; we give

(to the ideology of sacrifice:)
the way we present ourselves
overcooked, overdone, but never
rare.