DeAnne Lyn Smith
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When the Vegetarian Kisses the Carnivore
She feels like a cheat, sneaking
headphones into the opera,
whiskey into the synagogue.
Blood urges up to the swirls
of her ears and if some
bone pure part of her pretends
her tongue grilled against her lover’s
is not a gamy thrill, the pink
blush begs otherwise.
She closes her eyes, lets
the dim taste of steak knives
bleed into her mouth the way
beets color water.
Of course she can differentiate
between tendon and root,
which is not to say she hasn’t
heeled down on midnight
cockroaches or clapped mosquitoes
troubling the air above her lover’s spine.
When the vegetarian kisses the carnivore,
her mind’s caged statistics
go wild, pecking and scratching
at the wire, shedding feathers
under fluorescent lights.
Her thoughts are peppered with free-
range footprints of all shapes and sizes:
cloven, three-toed, five.
She learns convictions can bend
like cartilage. She’s learning love is,
if not unprincipled,
at least undisciplined,
a chef wiping spatulas on his sleeve,
licking his finger, dipping it back.
