By Lisa Shields
Date: 15 February 2001
Valentine Ridge
Getting there before you was the trick---
but God watches over small children,
and crazy women in love
and the county patrol missed me.
I had a few hours to start the sauce
filling the place with tomato garlic basil
and oregano
before your tires crunched on the gravel.
And like always my heart
tried to break lose of my ribs
hammering like John Henry
until i got my arms around you
one squeal and a flying hug
like it had been months or years
since last I touched you.
You look over the kitchen chaos,
and touch a spot on my chin.
Sauce, you say.
And haul me in
to delicately clear the skin
with the tender touch of your tongue.
Words have a way of melting away
when you decide to taste me
with that gourmet touch.
But no.
I am feeding you.
I break lose,
and ask you to pick some music
while I set the table---
white linen, crystal,
pewter napkin holders
and one tiny rose bud
set close to your place.
You pour me wine,
kiss my neck lightly
then sit to watch me looking bemused.
I put out the bread sticks and sweet butter
and lazily you reach for one
never taking your eyes from me.
The game is begun.
You nibble carefully,
and I cannot look away.
I dip one finger in the butter,
stop you, and glide it across the breadstick
scarcely breathing.
You reach for the antipasta,
select an olive
and offer it to my lips.
Oh--you devil---
you forced the end on your finger
so I must tug lightly to free it---
and since your finger is already at my lips
it is logical to kiss it softly,
nibble the pad,
and flick my tongue along the side
and dare you to look away.
Instead, you stand up
sweep me in your arms
and deposit me on the counter.
A moment later
I am drugged by a kiss,
shirt half open
and by no means a lady
and you reach for the wine,
pour it down my chin gently,
and begin to sip at me.
Fine vintage, you say.
Nice Mouth, i reply.
Dinners going to be late.
And I didn't even ask
what you were offering me
for dessert on the Ridge.
Happy Valentines Day, my beloved.
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