Butter on bread, your smile. Spread across your cheeks
Like clean sheets over the bed, minutes after my favorite
Meal of the day. (Did I just say that? To make you laugh?)
It’s true. I love the way you move. Beneath my mouth,
A billow. Clothesline laundry in the wind, the yard
We don’t yet have. Enough sex to make you happy.
If desire isn’t dirty, then at least admit we make a mess.
Skin, a surface like any other. So tell me, lover. How to feel
At home in a house that’s not in order? Because when
My body’s song runs dry, its echoes ring all over.
Every spill, an accident. Another blemish on the counter,
That mirror of my filth. But you. Live with hunger
Like it’s meant to happen. Are unafraid of unwashed
Dishes, their fairytale tower in the sink. So. Tell me
A story about delight. I want to know what’s next.