Muscadine
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
sweet
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
Source: Poetry (April 2013)