Anger

I could squeeze you like a grape,
your breasts heavy in between my arms
that wax and wane with my intake of cookies,
like the moon on those nights when we dipped our toes
in Meditarranean waters that danced over our bodies like strippers.

I could slice you with my tongue,
a pink sliver winding its way up your thighs,
whispering words that sleep in your belly
like undigested matza, burning for forty years
in the bushes of desire.

I could do all of those things,
each nail-rind another piece of infantry,
each tooth a bullet to bite you with, my dear,
like the wolf in those fairy tales you once whispered
into my ears, an ocean of covers engulfing our entwined bodies.

But I won't, because things said can not be unsaid
and bites can not be unbitten.

But just in case my anger slips like a nightgown from my shoulders,
I will wind up gauze around my fingers, ready to shroud your wounds in white,
giver and taker of words that weigh like an overipe watermelon in my palms,
waiting to be sliced open.