RECIPES OF LOVE

PAINTBRUSH

Paint my abdomen
domain of nourishment
slather it with acrylic
and vivid oils
magenta, olive, and gold,
an abstraction of distraction,
of painful contraction.

Tattoo a fingerprint over
the curved caesarian incision
a crimson stripe overlapped
by fatty bags of cellulite
force fed by garlic bread
and slithering pasta.

Now whisker geometric forms
upon my sagging breasts
name each nipple and dimple
with brushstrokes to
titillate my tits.

Do not frame me in gaudy bronze,
nor hang me on plaster walls.
Let me be living art
a performance in progress.

RECIPE FOR LOVE

A sweet tangerine to balance the sour lemon,
a sprinkle of bitter herb to remind of fragility
a blend of candied brisket and yams for harmony
sprigs of parsley, pinch of basil, and dash of rosemary
for the road ahead,
a rum-based dessert to warm the heart,
an array of fudge squares to offer strangers,
a handful of pignoli nuts to nourish nights
with one’s chosen knight,
and the rich aroma of mudslide coffee
to keep love astir.

Above all, a family feast to remind
of embracing kinship,
ever changing recipes each day
to invest the future with fertility.

SINFUL TASTES

Rosemary and rhyme, sinful tastes
of cinnamon spice, savory salads
tossed with thyme. A candied
moment to showcase the naked
chef, sprinkling condiments
like flower petals.

With gusto and lust,
the sultry siren does swallow
and chew delectable birds
that flew into a gaslit oven.

She measures her glances
while he advances, to pluck
her feathered garment,
fondle her curl and tress.

He tastes the licorice
upon her lips, and strokes
her melons with trembling
fingertips.

Later, he’ll fill her gourd
with fine wine,
the climax
of an evening divine.

LOVER, YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME

Have you met my cheese cake arms,
my muffin fists,
my apple breasts?

Have you seen my butter butt,
my ice cream hips,
my chocolate lips?

Have you noticed my milk-shake tears,
my pasta chin,
my croissant skin?

If you merely see what’s on the platter,
then I must say,
you know me not at all.

LATTE LIPS

Latte lips, taco chips
guacamole dips
spicy tongues delivering
sexy quips.

Her eyes cocoa dark,
her silky skin illumined
by a straying quark.
He melts within
the chocolate mound,
a region mint jellied
emitting noiseless sound.

They tangle in a seaweed embrace,
of limb and sinew,
suckling love bites
leave no trace.

He is the appetizer,
she, the entree,
their lust dessert,
upon this day.

For this most movable feast,
a teasing taste of lust’s
buffet.

AFTERTHOUGHTS OF THE AFFAIR

Custard cups
arrayed
on the Corian counter,
contents of which
will be combined
in the chef’s concoction.
Red horse radish,
reminding her
of sharp, pungent pleasure juices.
Sauerkraut,
as tangy as his tone,
Peanut butter,
sticking to her erogenous zones,
thickened, throbbing.
Chopped ginger root,
bursting with sarcasm.
Minced garlic,
overpowering
the sweat of their lovebed,
Fennel seeds
like the licorice points
of his eyes,
Parsnip and turnips
warring with each other for dominance.
When finally mixed into one recipe,
the essence of love out of balance
yet ready to serve.

INGREDIENTS OF MY DIASPORA

Artichoke heart cowers beneath
coarse leaves,
fluttering organ meat
pounding, pulsing,
unprotected by fractured ribs
Onion layers uncoil
revealing symmetry’s core
Master and matter recoil
from cloved tongue
of garlic breath
Chicken livers slither
on broken platters
thick necks leak blood drops
into simmering water globules
eyeball eggs bounce against celery bits
thigh meat strands straggle and struggle
The ingredients of the diaspora.