Sunny Sidle Up

Husband comes up to me
Tuesday afternoon,
briefcase dropping on the tile,
arms locked around my waist from behind.
Kisses nape of my neck,
beard brushes against the top of my spine,
flowers budding between vertebrae,
hitch in breathing,
sizzling of bacon,
flash in pan.
Low chuckle rumbling like
approaching train,
railroad track back.
Fixes fingers into ridges of my hip bones,
makes me rise on tiptoe,
God, I want to make a pit stop—
timer goes off.
There’s a growl caught in your throat,
somehow I choke out, “Breakfast”
and you say, “No”
with your leg pressed between two of mine,
fumbling fingers turning off the stove.
Lit up like LA strip,
I try “dinner”
but the way it spills off my tongue
coincides with my apron falling to the floor.
I always thought you liked frills,
as you unzip the back of my dress with stinging fingers
that leave marks on my flesh,
You’re in a hurry today,
pull my frame into your body,
slip my strap off your shoulder,
Oh, wait. Those frills.
Bite into the flesh underneath,
and I can’t breathe,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t breathe,
so you spin us around,
and I’m somehow on the counter,
and my dress is falling down my waist,
as your hands make their way into my hair
and I kick myself free of all fabric
that stops my legs from wrapping around you
as lips crush against lips,
like my body molding to yours,
sticker and sweat,
falling into bed,
saying you love how the light hits me,
saying I never looked so pretty,

you know you’re only dreaming, right?
‘cause God knows
you can’t cook to save your life.”


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