What I know of desire would fill a teaspoon.
Small doses, swallowed whole
Not enough to devour
Only enough to taste.
Sticky baked banana
from fingertips to lips
seducing you with sweets
licked up extra with a pink tip.
I’ve been told I am the type of woman
who would drown in a puddle of water.
Cold glasses of vodka martinis
chilled ‘til our teeth are set on edge
biting ice chips from the canister
on a sweltering July night.
What I know of her desire
scrapes language from my tongue
overcomes the flames in her bone marrow
creates dark expansive space between us
and does not leave orange-scented
tenderness behind
Instead…what’s left are mere shells
of dented armor…to be hammered.
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