Digestif

None of this made sense:
her teeth
the way she wiped
her hands on the dirty
dish towel then
smoothed it perfect
where it hung on
the long bar.

But wait.
That,
that I’d seen before.
Dismissive flick of the wrist,
reflexive tidying after–
she’d brushed me
aside much the same way
then eased the wrinkle
where I’d lain, erasing
with cool fingers
my last trace.

Saying the only words
I’d ever wanted
to hear from
her mouth,
each syllable al dente,
snapping off under
white incisors.

You know, I
wanted to tell her,
I always thought one day
you might bite me
with those teeth
the same way you bit
through words when
you were angry.
Sharp and final, keeping
the best parts in your mouth
sharing nothing
of their meaning but
giving freely of the bitterness
running down your chin.

I could
catch those
drops or
I could have
nothing.

Let me wipe your mouth.
I will do the dishes,
match the lids for the tupperware
keep what is left for tomorrow.

You will tuck a napkin under your chin.
I will be gone before your last bite.