I tire
of the well-dressed
at these parties;
even after all these years
I long to go home
and unlock the secrets
between your proud hips.
Leave the crostinis and the bellinis
to the haute couture.
You and I rock back and forth
together on a bed of almond stems
until we've ground the protein
to a fine powder.
Add water, add essence of plum,
add lilac, citron and the mildest daub
of stone-pressed olive,
and sell it back to the well-dressed,
that they might wear our scent in tender places
beneath their clothes.
Even as they mingle--palming tiny crusts of bread,
sipping demurely from delicate flutes,
posing in careful sympathy, surprise or judgment--
there I smell the breath that gives them life
and hear but your call across the room.
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