By Sandra Beasley
Sweet boy, every inch I‘d [blank] in your bed
I want to [blank] in your bed seven times.
Thigh, gaze, sigh, finger, slap: There is no end
to the blanks I’d like to fill in with you.
But I’m trying to be good. So we meet
for this redundantly termed “bite to eat,”
sinners in Puritan drag. Let us eat
now, bite later. If I’m pilgrim, your bed
is Plymouth Rock. If I’m pilgrim, I’d meet
the ship to de-flower your May dockside. Times
do not evolve past such hungers; though you
can groom, tame, belt, buckle, trim the split ends
and the hair just grows faster in the end.
This bistro soup? Not what I want to eat.
I want to hunker in your kitchen–you
flipping bacon from greasy pan to bed
of thick-cut French toast, not taking the time
to wipe, swig, or brush before our tongues meet
with the crumbs still clinging and salty meat
lingering in our teeth–I want to end
up floor-licked under you, rug-burnt. Sometimes
foreplay’s a three-fork place set before eating
with your hands. Sweat our only salt, a bed
our only plate. If you get me, then you
should go ahead and get the check. If you
don’t, go ahead and get the check; I’ll meet
your half, tip well, head home to my own bed.
But that’s not how I want this date to end.
In Hokusai’s world, a woman could eat
octopus sushi yet dream, other times,
of the beast devouring her, spread eight times
wide on a coral bed. I’d love for you
and I to be so fair in how we eat:
a kind of welfare, making sure ends meet.
Literally. A meal feeds a weekend,
shakes the folded napkin of a made bed.
At times a spoon should be steel-less, meeting
curve to curve as you begin at my end:
Möbius, stripped. Come eat breakfast in bed.