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Late in the night she slices green apples.
Cranberries dance in the scalding pot.
Preparing an exotic dessert.
Turmeric. Cinnamon. Curry.
I read poems of longing aloud, mixing
Into the cauldron an incantation of yearning and spice.
Flavors curl through the room
Temptation for the palate
For the flesh, though
More than the body must always be fed.

She lays on the bed, leans on her elbows
Trying to find some words in a journal
Blouse slips, revealing the tattooed
Phases of Mother Moon across her shoulders.

Electricity rides the thread between us
Subtle urges beg for touch the way magnets
Desire north and south
The way canvas longs for inspiration and oil.

I would kiss the moon from your back
Into the sky
Release the stars from your eyes
Into the night
Brush fall wind hair across your cheek
Revel in the healing goddess
Reaching out
To me.

You warm your feet against my leg
Our fingers curl together.