Feast

In the doorway, sizzling onions
Punctuated by our half-open
Mouths, slowly staining purple from sauvignon
(The bottle with the forty-seven pound chicken mascot)
Moving down your neck, bruising your skin
Like a ripe, red, apple
Hearing your lungs collapse and open, faster and faster

My digits pull at your licorice hair,
Smelling the infusion of pomegranate and pears.
Fruits to overpower the permeated cumin seed and garlic
On my fingers, which move slowly down your vanilla back
Savoring each curve, lower and lower

Your eyelids part and your gaze travels the half foot to my own
Eyes that match March’s pale blue sky
Eyes that watch the browning piece of meat
We break away momentarily-
The steak needs to be turned over