You
have left
traces
of flour
around
my breasts
from
when you cupped
your
cold
pastry-making
hands
around
them
lifting
one
and
then the other
like
goatskins of wine
to
your tasting tongue
my skin slips
like dry, sanded paper
in your palms
you
roll my flesh
like
dough
between
your fingers
and
your thumbs
you wring from me
a
syrup of ecstasy
my
buttocks rest
against
the
chill, marble
slab
as
we wait
for
the heating
of
the oven
