What my mouth means when
it opens is that I want to eat you
alive; to say “touch me”
without all the hesitance.
A fig without its juice is just
the waist of a woman, honey
butter. Something to bind your
jaw in the deepest winter.
Seeds erupt on my tongue in
a raptured applause: I listen.
For the fruit, tender and
sticky, all I can do is hunger.
