You're the constant hunger in my tummy
and I'm the bumble bee
too tubby to toddle petal to petal.

I've gotten so zaftig lusting after you,
a fruit swollen, fed on fantasies:
take me in the garden with a grazing
of stubble, the moist soft cleft
of your lips, a topographic map of paradise.

One little nibble for my life.
Incisor punctures like the stilletto
awl that stamped stars
into the tarp of night,
a viscious piercing to tear my skin
that cries for you alluvial flavor.

Taste me, lap at the slash
in my peach fuzz, suck
the source of juice
and tell me if love is something more
than this torment of weight.