by Loretta Diane Walker

The sizzle of charcoal and smoked beef
clings to waves of hard muscles,
his six-pack naked with sheen as Odessa air.
November pumps high temps,
an aged month sparring with June’s fresh heat.
I watch, desire dancing in my stomach
red-flamed tongues bussing in his barbeque grill.
Next year at this time, I will have known many meals;
this heat, lust for my bronzed David’s
steaks will be lean memories.
Oh, this appetite for flesh and splendor!
He taps a pair of tongs against his thigh, licks the lip
of a salty-mouth glass, stares beyond me— my want.

When the sinewy light of day contracts,
the night remembers
its November, unfurls a chilly carpet of air.
I slink inside
not knowing the taste and flex of his thoughts,
close the blinds,
shut-out a blizzard of stars blowing
across the broad darkening desert sky.

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