First date.
With her fork tines,
she stabs a succulent sliver of beef,
holds it up towards my mouth.
The aroma of this slightly bloody morsel
heightens my senses.
She doesn’t ask it of me,
but it’s an invitation.
I look into her eyes
and I’m aware of all that is around me,
waiters scurrying past,
conversations at nearby tables,
a knife dropped to the floor,
a napkin shaken,
children fidgeting.
It’s not so innocent,
this piece of beef.
To open my mouth is to receive more
than this fragment of flesh.
That is merely the beginning.
Then there will be the cherry on her sundae,
then her finger covered in caramel sauce,
then her neck,
her mouth,
her tongue,
her lithe body,
and, finally,
her screaming soul.
To open my mouth
would be to devour it all.
Careful now.
Our ancestors covered their mouths
when they yawned,
to stop the demons from coming in.
But that is not my problem.
I shake my head no to her gracious offer.
I just cannot allow the demons to get out.