Comme Il Faut

I fell in love with you
as much as I dared
a teaspoon, maybe half,
as much as I dared.

I stirred it through
and brought it to my lips
taking what I dared of love
a teaspoon, maybe half.

Your arms were like a handle
each to hold you by, or I could
reach my arms around you
as you raised your head and sighed.

Reaching for what I dared,
a teaspoon of warmth
maybe half,
maybe a little more.

Can you understand the strength of seasonings,
how easily they overwhelm?
A pinch too much, and the main is gone.
Then once again you must begin
a teaspoon at a time.

I love you in the sizzle,
Red with wine,
Boiling, drenched with sweat,
Simply standing, simply dripping.

I love you flesh-toned like butter
I love you blended mood on mood.
I love you plain, a teaspoon at a time.

Tasting, testing, simmering,
bringing into balancing,
watching not to burn,
Checking, checking not to singe or spoil.

Yet if we finally dared ignore a sensitivity
to the whole, feasting fast on all we could,
if we were to abandon comme il faut,
completely disregarding what we know,

would it be disaster absolute and sure
or something newer, something fine?
And realization,
would it come all at once,
or only just a teaspoon at a time?