Kitchen Skirmish

Senses gone. I could have cut you in the throat and suck your liquids.

Your eyes of a delirious lover: look at me— thoughtfully then hard.

As you lean your head in my arms, looking at me; your hair smelled of the sea—

Tempting to drown us both; this afternoon connotes a number of things:

Sitting beside you, feeling the warmth of your body; alone idled with unspoken lust

We both know why I am here and the implication of this visit from an old lover

You are so inviting. Are you thinking too of dragging us to the kitchen?

Yes. We seem to share the same fantasy. Drag.


                 Drag me further. Yes.


Beside the heat of the fridgator; smother me to the brink of ecstasy.

Whispers. Moans. Deprived of air. Are we trying to kill us?

My tongue burns against yours.

Ah. Frantic lovers. We always imagined ourselves like this:

Unzip. Unclasp. Take it off.

                                                 There. Yes.

 “Carry Me.” Wrapping your thighs around my waist.

You asked if you are heavy.

You are heavier than I thought and you laughed—

Utensils clanged against the floor as our bodies lead to the kitchen sink

Like a drunk mad man.

Leave them alone. Your eyes said.

As we both swam in each other’s mouth.

In a battle of grip. In exploit of the newly conquered territories.

The pots, strainers and whisks; spatulas, spoons and tongs.

Fall in defeat with metallic objection.



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