I am food-wise.
A guru in the ways of the plum;
A sorceress of the aroma spells
Which lure you to my cookery.
Pickling your anger bitter
Has never been so succulent.
I chutnify the discs in your spine
To mould you over like a fork,
Curved and ominous,
And stare at you with gluttonous eyes
As you let steam from this room,
Which is hot with your craving.
And oh god if I could only
Find such a release, I would
Spread you across me like butter;
And surely I’d taste the fruit of our labour
Sweet on my tongue:
The acid-sucrose-salt-y melee
Salving me with its disaccharides
When my lips are dry with thirst.
But instead I can only imagine
This full-up satisfaction. Instead I
Breathe in your fragrance,
Pretzel your vision,
And make you another essence
To distract my famished soul.