I traced my finger down your backbone,
ridged like the smell of sauerkraut on New Year’s.
Eyes transfixed on 33 vertebrae, standing out
like so many lumps of mashed potatoes,
sweat puddled in your lumbar curve like gravy.

I watched as your chicken bone hips twitched,
tense and giddy from my tickling digits,
as you shifted to your side, breasts rolling
across your chest, settling like the plop of
congealed cranberry sauce dropping from its can.

I couldn’t help but smile at the freckles sprinkled
on your shoulders like pepper and cinnamon,
or at the strawberry-rhubarb flush of your cheeks.
When your laugh bubbled out like champagne,
I knew my soul would never know famine again.


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