Love in the Kitchen on a Southern Day

The South sits heavy on my tongue as we speak,
my mouth perfumed with poise.

Our legs, chained around a leg of the table, touch.
You raise my hand to your mouth,

as if biting jam on toasted bread,
my feet, tap – tap – tapping the tile.

Your appetite is hushed, but I long for you
to lean me against a small tree, for my belly is prolific but bare.

We speak of birds, and let the dishes
dry themselves in the sun,

I want to pocket their warm porcelain with my palms,
but will not pull my hand from you.

Love comes to us, a fleshy God, a beggar of red desires,
that we refuse to starve. But, I too refuse to starve.