Skewer a bleak piece of meat, bruising
rhythmic hips bumped up
against Formica while stirring
slow, marinating salty—still angry
about yesterday and lemons.
It’s morning
and you’re sorry, subtly flavored
savory with a Worcestershire bite.
Nibbling juicy,
like lime flesh lolling open
to peel my onion layers
one by one to the floor;
petaled out until
just the rawness remains.
Teasing taste buds
into taut lines, forgiven rows
rolled over
tongue. Delicious.
Peppered red and seedy-sore now,
but satisfied
that we won’t forget our manners
at the dinner table. Folded
tee *** napkins,
folded hands and don’t
touch the silverware. Yet.
Eat it bare or not at all.
Swallow. Whole.
Ask for seconds,
maybe thirds
if you’re vulnerable.
And I think
from the throb in your throat,
(a tender, exposed slope)
that you’re stirring to be.