She wears a necklace of pearl onions
to the Bon Home Cafe
where he waits over steamed mussels,
intensely green spinach,
and roasted pork belly.
She kisses his cheek,
notes a scent of beef heart tartar,
kisses him again--on his mouth,
burning with jalapeno from,
she wonders, a duck carnitas taco?
Or crispy lamb’s tongue?
A pinot noir sits on the table,
two crystal glasses meet in the air,
the wine slides down their throats
like a cooled down rump pudding.
For you, darling, the pomegranet glazed quail?
No, no, she asserts tartly.
The Brazilian lobster tail.
It costs more.
Why not? He smiles wrly.
It’s our last date.
I’ll toast to that, the tart dissolving
from her key lime voice.
Waiter! He calls.
A melon liquor as cold as this woman’s heart!
Better cold than pickled and twice-cooked!
she retorts with a mix of raw honey
And Korean mustard.
Ah, here they are, he smiles.
Espresso-soaked lady fingers dipped in rum.
Give me some, she demands.
He reaches between the butter
and the orange sugar biscuits,
takes her lance-shaped fingers
in his hands and licks them,
One ladyfinger at a time.
Her blood thickens like creme fraiche,
her body glistens like half pears
sunk in pools of warm bourbon.
Can we dine from time to time? he asks
with a breath of garlic
on their walk to her car.
No, she hisses. I’ve had enough
of your bevy of warm beef and creamy coleslaw,
your wild mushrooms and Ports,
your tastings, your chilled bottles.
So be it, darling,
his voice dripping, like butter
From skewered shrimp in lemon pepper.
She drives away vexed their hunger
could so quickly be sated and vows
from now on to avoid cattle of any kind.