Just the right amount of squeeze 

at my hip

of a lemon 

on the pasta we craft for each other

of the sponge he knows I don’t like to touch when wet.

A tongue, a croissant, a bottom smack, 

exactly when we wanted one

A well-timed tease, balletically treading that tightrope line 

from this now, to the next, to the next to the next please

Moments studded above our ...

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Deep is the dampness settling upon my brown skin.

A layered onion would not succumb to its 

seduction.

An Oregon rain is persistent, precipitated by

a scowl of dirty clouds, a Creole-colored frown,

its sound preceding as if pitter-pattering feet running

free like caribou on an open plain.

Nothing tastes better than Jovino's Pinot Gris,

recommended by Emily, a wine...

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