for my husband, watermelon, no roses |
NO ROSES He brings me watermelon, no roses, sliced, icy pink, a gift that proposes soft, samba nights, a willingness to please, revealing passion, a trembling with ease. Seeded, pulpy flesh, succulent and fresh, paired with feta, opposing flavors mesh, much like this marriage, conjugal high seas, revealing passion, a trembling with ease. Juices dripping down chin, and cleavage, too, licked from skin, an intoxicating brew, sheen of everyday magic, no guarantees, revealing passion, a trembling with ease. He brings me watermelon, no roses, revealing passion, a trembling with ease. |