John Rice
What’s for Afters?
You part, for a while, each ligated layer
in syncopated dance
which calls for unison
of your transparent flesh.
A symphony plays beneath you
the steam iambic-the heat staccato
where your rostrum treads the iron.
My tongue tours the walls of my mouth,
bearing the delay, tempted to eat you raw,
in wholesome mood.
The meter!
It shows low, a coin-quickly!
And now allegro
dear tube of acid-soaked web;
allot your face-contorting medicine
to my blood and bone.
Onion frying in a pan.
What’s for afters?
Page(s) 66
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