meg tuite
Succulent
Making love to her soul’s self
she turns the bacon
so it won’t burn
Charred bodies
smoke
in the after-math
of mornings
without sex
she sculpts her lack
into an omelette
filled with all
the plumpness of flesh
english muffins
slathered in melted cheese
and sunflower seeds
that trace the tongues of lovers
mounting each other
on the plate
one gluttonous orgy
of tastebuds
that will mingle
and migrate
into places she
has rarely been