Feast

            —Let me taste
the kitchen in your skin.

Now that company’s gone
& the kids are tucked in,
let the real feasting begin.

Let me lay you out on the
bed like a spread of bone

china.—Yes, I want a
piece of you.
                Yes, I do.

Give me your garlic, and
the sting of your pepper.

The plenty of your hair
(cinnamon, cardamom).

Here a hint of coffee, &
there, in the cup of your
shoulder, I swear, a lick
of salted butter.
                          But first:
your wrist, your palm’s
sweet meat.

                          Dip your
fingers in my kisses—
star anise—lemon zest—
Say a grace, my fare,
my flight,
                  & let’s re-light
the candles tonight

Todd Boss, Pitch: Poems (February 2012)