Sex is a French crepe

oozing with crème fraiche and berries
on a round plate with a silver fork
hovering above a full stomach

a gaping pit in the body
where no room existed before,
filling with layers of sugar on fat,
cool steel pressed into willing flesh.

To be torn apart,
to dribble from lips,
to tap-dance on the tongue—
to die a bright, elegant death like silk
in the mouth, a snake
slick down the throat,
curled in the belly,
settled, satisfied, devoured.

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