Sometimes dinner becomes a love poem


There is a ripeness on the brink of rot
Beneath the rugged skin a hint of gray
softness that tells us in another day
flesh will be bitter. I would rather not

be ashes on a younger lover’s tongue
and in her mouth decay to bitterness.
Some love affairs so obviously a mess
even to have that first screw would be wrong

far better savour what will never be
the scent, and elegant geometries
of skin, than see sharp anger in your eyes
that I’ve betrayed you, worse, that you’ve tricked me

and hate me because guilty. Rather flirt
and kiss, than fuck our friendship into dirt.

About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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