We still have weekend brunch, which indicates
Availability. We’ll secretly
Keep tabs which lovers stayed the night. I want
You back but nothing in reality
Sustains this force-fed fantasy of mine.

The waitress sets a calla-lilly here
Between us, bandage-white but healthy, leaves
Furled, self-protective. You caress its lip,
Whip out a frothy, half-cooled compliment,
Flip through the menu, smiling carelessly.

If we unwrapped our naked appetite,
Would we be saved? Starched linen shields our laps.

My map, your manhood, waylaid me, amused.

Wine spills. The story repositions from
My telling, twists to yours, the boasting host,
Cold altar I’d sacrificed myself on.