Date Night

after Lucas Crawford’s “My Last Meal”   A mid-price Spanish red of subtle vanilla tones, I almost look like I know what I’m doing if not for the corkscrew. 2L of water from the Brita downed because the Montreal Steak Spice has more salt in it than the Epsom bath soak customary after two days of cervix stimulation— note to self: sex after a pap test is inadvisable. We slice Monterey Jack thin, cheese flayed as the timer on the oven replaces any sense of what time it is. Cheap McCain fries pair well with cuts of sirloin that cut into overdrawn accounts. I gulp back the blue birth control and the white anxiety capsules like oysters. Can you taste the suppressed fertility on my lips, the liqueur of less stress. The gristle’s paprikaed and salted and hell, we’d eat it anyway. You cringe a little at an offered olive, some tastes are acquired. Frozen broccoli steams quickly, redeemed by melted brie and a healthy helping of butter. We’re cheese, corn. Honeymooners devouring meaty kisses in a kitchen too tiny to have a sit-down meal. Keep the bacon grease, the eggs will be better for it tomorrow. There were only organic green onions at the store. Oh well. Coffee mugs between thighs act as heat therapy, hide morning breath with a mouth wash of caffeine and cereal cream. Take the time to digest this, love. You place two fat-slicked fingers down my throat, vulvar uvula pulsing with your touch. I’m desperate for you to fill me up.