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Ryan Able



I'm looking at her like a last meal
and wondering what kind of dressing
fits on those fresh-edged lettuce
leaves bursting from the little bowl
under her jeans -- red silk maybe
nah she's too pink
for that kind of clash
against her delicacies
maybe white like milk
maybe nothing at all
light as oil and vinegar
like a house special
like my own girl likes it
so all you see is the garden
I wanna pour wet fingers over
those buds I'm tasting on the tip
of me beneath my own hidden
thick breaths I try to swallow
as if my own girl standing there
doesn't know
the scent of ignored hunger