I am the sort
whose love will perch
cross-legged
on a kitchen counter top and
watch
the snake-tongue sizzle
of my heart
diced and flying
in your un-greased
frying
pan while you so innocently
sautee
the thick skin of what could
once have made you
cry
and run so easily
and only then will you look up
as if to say
"are you up for a little stir
fry
tonight?"