My love's hungry for its own eradication,
but it's a lemon I can't swallow whole
until circumstance comes along and wedges,
skims tangentially by and zests, just squeezes --
her fingers adept on the kitchen boards, and
with the utensils found in the drawers, a chef.
Fast moving like a dance when it's called for
but patient with the time, waiting for the reverb,
the well-echoes, the satisfactory plunge
a taste makes when it bulls-eyes. The zen
of plinking a sexpartite cross-section citrus shim
between the ice cubes of a tall, cool glass of H2O.
And her appearance, smearing itself like ectoplasm
what a goddess in that she can walk on her hands.