Your stature is like a palm tree,
and your breasts are like its clusters.
I said, “I will climb the palm tree,
I will take hold of its fruit stalks.”
            Oh, may your breasts be like clusters of the vine.
            And the fragrance of your breath like apples,
            and your mouth like the best wine…

I bought thighs so I could sauté them
(“browning” is for beef, and when it comes to our kind of cooking,
the French do it better)
Sauté them then, the thighs, before pulling them apart with my fingers
and ripping them to pieces perfect for our mouths

The store-bought tikka masala sauce had straightforward instructions with,
despite the “Indian Inspiration” on the label, not much spice.
So I seasoned the thighs, before tossing them, wet and sticky and raw
into the Valentine’s Day night heat of the searing pan.
Nothing too erotic, cough cough, I mean exotic
just some onion and garlic powder
and white pepper for color.

But I keep the cayenne to the side, you prefer your masala sweet;
your tongue — though adventurous, can’t always stand the heat…