Published in The Interpreter's House
Thick-cut, snapped apart
with a small, hollow pistol-pock, black,
white and milk with the flakings
of the break discernible. Taste me
and die. But, first: the orgy. Turning,
molten, in the mouth, on the tongue, dislocated
for an instant through the sweetness. Oblivion puts
back the head at a soft thrust. I mark
the chandelier. Your lipstick is blotted off.
Sherehezade, Sherehezade! Tell one more story
and then you are gone. Perhaps a square
with praline oozing, then no more.
The pistachio mousse, I concede, is quite
untried and, by its crisp, dark leaves
framed, a must for experimentation.
But enough is enough. I do not forget
the almond paste, the mocha-melt edged
with vanilla and the round, dusted eye
of the truffle. But all things must end.
Even now, I detect excess. One
Montelimar moment and then I do regret -
you understand the form, I know - I very much
regret, your going-out is in the order
of things. Nonetheless, I thank you.