peach of a grape

                           in his fingertips

                                                        like holding home

            he noses its musk

Taste, he says

                         and parts my lips with a globe and

                                                                                   a thumb I lick

                                                        I bite the thick skin

                           His Arkansas aches

                                                                                                on my tongue

                           His hand vines my chin my throat

My face flames

                                To the lady on the bus

                                                          he brags

                                                                          Her blush comes from my touch.

Better to marry than to burn

                          she quotes

                                         She don’t know us

More Poems by Mary Moore Easter