Nela
Three months of dinners
trivialized into a final exchange
of a richly embroidered green
pashmina shawl and a maroon scarf.
Three wet and creamy months
end with a walk in a dungeonesque
cigarette stained smokey corridor,
where I leave fleshy bits of
palpitating cardiac muscles,
drenched in salt waters
of the Dead Sea.
I swallow my pride.
I swallow my organs and leave both
at your doorstep.
I become the graceful gestures
of a Mombasa drummer,
beating hollow tree trunks
amidst Angelinos.
You push me within and without
trapped like the spicy flavors
of a lamb Ossabuca,
that you serve your friends,
on a cranberry flavored night
where you descend and devour
red fleshy strands, with
one leg on each side,
with each hand by my ear,
with my hands on your breasts,
squeezing,
till the juices melt
on our tongues.