bitter, sweet, salty, sour.
The tastes are male and female:
the miracles of a girl’s first blood,
her first lover’s sweat.
The various ways to know emptiness.
I might have known a river of wanting.
But the tides of your body mark
where I am hungry still,
a salver on a table without salt.
As if I am a meat that needs feeding,
you hunt me only to serve up yourself,
a food to be used entirely,
even the pulse, even the breath.
Here is a secret:
when your mouth purls over my breasts
what I crave crawls into me.
The stilled creature of your heart
lays out its sweet flesh.
I say mine is a woman’s body,
here is what I mean:
I have felt milk sweeten in these breasts
and know the pelt of desire is its own trophy.