findinghecate

Hunched below
the dim kitchen bulb,
she pulls out the knife
determined.

Secretly observing,
tongue smoothing
over my tender lips,
I wait.

Narrowed on the task,
she slices deep
into the tomato
spurting a spray like
blood on the white cutting board,
like the saliva
escaping around restraints
down her china chin.

She holds up the knife
like the key to her heart
and licks off cool tomato sweetness
and I think warm,
sticky sweetness.

The stale summer heat
stifles the kitchen
marinating salty sweat
upon my slick skin,
shiny like latex.

Her muscles
tense slightly
with each slash
into the happily helpless
red tomato.

The second fruit
waits for the knife's
penetration,
but I step closer
taking it to my creamy teeth
pressing
into its virgin flesh.