Nothing is more intimate than preparing food for someone:

It becomes part of them, muscle, bone, skin, sinew

I imagine your shoulders working

muscles powering

your hands transforming food

into an offering

molding     crafting     fashioning

preparing the food preparing

yourself

Eat of this bread it is my body

and shall be yours.

 

Will you sit back     contented     watching

watching my eating

or is the nourishment in the sharing

the food not a sculpture but a dance

Will you dance with me arms entwining

placing single morsels on the tongue

a divine secular communion, living hand to mouth.

 

Lover cannibal     unsure where fingers end

where flesh melts into food, when food becomes flesh

consuming and becoming, eating and being eaten

hungry, hungry, ravenous but not greedy

not giving, not taking

sharing     partaking

devouring but not destroying.

 

A kiss ends at the lips, or soon after

But pressing your hands to my lips,

taking them to my mouth, in my mouth

licking my lips, your fingers

do not stifle but

nourish and

sustain me.

 

©1991 Michael Singman

Tags: poetry

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 18th, 2017 at 12:16 am and is filed under Miscellany, Musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.