Four writers for the price of one blog
in the kitchen slicing apples,
wiping your flour-dusted hands on the back
of your jeans, dress, or skirt—why shouldn’t I?
Hips, food, the cornucopia
of your spine. I only meant to steal a kiss. Granted:
It’s humid, morning, August.
What’s more innocent than pastries for an afternoon?
Why shouldn’t there be
flour on your hips?
Why shouldn’t you wear an apron with nothing
underneath? The little balls of dough
sit on a buttered sheet— two rows of six.
apple rings to fill the holes:
butter, cinnamon and brown sugar.
The crime is your little cry of surprise,
when I grip your hair,
the counter top’s edge, and the little push
at the small of your back that makes you arch, part
your legs and rise
to the tips of your toes. But don’t stop.
Is there anything more beautiful? A woman’s thumbs
pressing into pastries
while her lover
opens, rises into, and fills her womb? The sweet
cry. The tart expression. The air sprinkled
with your little exclamations.
You’re so buttery smooth inside.
this morning. Forgive what I put into you,
what I fill you with, to bake in you while you bake pastries.
I only meant to steal
Will Crimson | September 6 2017