I mean, we are this intimate
with our food. Tongue to taste,
teeth to bite, lips to feel.
Hands that pass bread pass breast,
Hands that cup chin cup glass,
Like Christ forty days later,
so holy and brilliant, breaking the bread
that is body, drinking wine that is blood.
Like infants sucking nipples,
waiting for milk to squirt out of a fat,
unsexy breast. Like hunter, like french chef,
like pack of wolves: surviving.

Which set of lips
is a goblet of life?
Which pair of hands
a mother? Who is
a dead deer,
a seductive eclair,
a delicious quarry,
something caught and consumed?

This moment,
nailed down under a sunset,
a broken curfew,
a first time doing what;
a quenching of hormonal thirst,
a satisfying of an untamable craving,
leading to pants too tight,
a button that breaks loose.

07/13/2005

Posted on 07/13/2005
Copyright © 2010 Stephanie Lane Sutton