#ThrowbackThursday Poetry: After She Cooked You a Feast for the Gods

Loosen my belt,
unbutton my trousers,
release this belch—
there’s room for more.
And how stupid are you
to not know stuffing
from dressing? Baste
the bird, gobble its
giblets; gravy pairedfe1f64b599ed42caf657a7b99a0ee401
with rice; mac missing
cheese; ham baked
in honey; hocks season
collards, turnips; yams
from a can, needs more
sugar, overcooked like
sweet potato mash.
Don’t speak while the
‘Boys are on, spoon me
berry cobbler, pumpkin
pie; pound cake apple
chai sits like a boulder
in my gut. Still there’s
room for more.


Thanksgiving is next Thursday! Are you ready for the gluttonous feast? 

Originally published November 24, 2016.

After She Told You to Get Up the Second Time

Too full—stomach tight—
I can balance this plate
on top of my belly button.fe1f64b599ed42caf657a7b99a0ee401
Thanksgiving tastes even
better after two days in
the fridge. Yams sweeter
with extra drizzle of syrup.
Ribs more fat than meat—
Cajun spices in the dry
rub. Boil stuffing down to
gravy over rice. Hush up,
woman, carb conscious.
Doing sit-ups with every
bite—I’m moving, dammit.


After the Boutique Opened at 5AM

Sated by the fireplace
while my stomach rumbles,
he tells me of his devouringsfe1f64b599ed42caf657a7b99a0ee401
as she rubs his neck and shoulders,
dances an offering of cinnamon
eggnog and rum. My darling
lady left a frozen turkey in
the oven, red tags beckoning.
Jimmy Choo’s slip from her
heels, clank down sidewalk,
halt at any door marked “SALE!”


After You Caught Them in Bed Together

fe1f64b599ed42caf657a7b99a0ee401Sun sets on furrowed
brow; scent of lilacs on his
breath when he kisses

you — Goodnight.


After Your Neighbor’s Wife Smiled At You

The scent of lavender exudes from your radiant skin,
draws me to the drifting waves of your knee-high
lawn. At risk of snakes, I’ll mow, no charge but
invite to dinner— Two days he’s away on business,
one night to have you in my arms. I dab dried
Lavandula buds to crook of your neck where
early morning you mist essential oils aromatic;
Aphroditic pair folded into molten chocolate batter—
While it bakes, you and I shall lick the spoon.


After You Broke Up With Narcissus

If I could make love to myself,
I’d start with my hips—
sweet curve like morningfe1f64b599ed42caf657a7b99a0ee401
dew moistens tip of tongue
in strawberry season.
Ripened red fields rock
me in cradled vines. Whisper
my voice, cool my slick skin
in wind of door you slam
behind your back receding.