Whose Kitchen, Anyway?
You've banned my sandwiches with Mother's Pride,
use low-fat spreads instead of salted butter,
have been a convert to that wholegrain bread,
spend hours in the kitchen punching, kneading,
proffer RyVita, thinly spread with honey,
when all I want's another slice of you.
I appreciate the healthy life that you
are advocating, but I have my pride:
really, must you usurp my kitchen, honey?
Your mother warned me of your passion, but her
predictions fell short of the mark; your kneading
should be upon my deltoids, not my bread.
Don't get me wrong, dear, I am too well bred
to throw a fit, hurl baking tins at you;
but you must understand the dreadful need in
my libido: it's only stubborn pride
keeps me from slathering your chest with butter,
licking slow to stimulate the taste of honey.
It's not dieting I need, my love - my honey
should be comb, thick sliced on crusty bread;
I long to have a slab of shiny butter,
my face reflected in it and with you
by me in the reflection. I have pride
in your achievements, dear, admire your kneading.
The muscles you've developed bring this needing
to oven heat. Can you not see it, honey?
I know you've never asked me, never pried
into my private thoughts. Has lust been bred
out of your make-up? How I wish that you
would wake me with a brioche and some butter.
A woman feeds a man to snare him, but her
means is just a foretaste of the end. Needing
no virtuoso competition from you,
I long to lick your lips, coated with honey,
rather honeyed tongue than any form of bread.
Get on your high horse, dear. Hey, wake up! Ride
out with me to the sun, hon, eating bread.
They'll not be needing it, so grab the butter:
what pride, assuaging my hunger with you!
If you have any comments on this poem, Lynn Moir
would like to hear from you: firstname.lastname@example.org