for Paige DeShong
I cannot truly hold you to my heart—
that heated place where all
desires melt together—
Nor press my face upon your breast—
Something might stick,
pull apart in shreds
In fact to hold
or not to hold you
that is a question
that twists my stomach
like pretzels
To take you in my hand
or in my mouth, or leave
you there to sweat it out
while I ready forks and knives—
to think you might
unwrap yourself, expose
your inner bean, your
hidden beef, to hear
you beg for your pathetic life in which
the only real event
to speak of is this hungry
moment, all pretensions dropped! And so
I grab and put you right where you belong,
inside among my own
untasty secrets—consuming
doubt that gnaws me deep.
I have you now.
I have a bowl of sauce.
I have you yet.
Just one quick feel,
before we start, of this
cool beer. Somehow,
we both begin to sweat.