I never baked you a lasagna,
Never prepared noodles and cheese,
Meat and sauce just to please you.
I didn’t fill my small apartment
With the smells of an Italian
Jewish grandmother’s kitchen.
I thought you were joking,
But you were not, when you said
You wanted those layers,
Deep, rich, and bubbling;
When I falsely assumed
We should spend time in bed
Under tiers of covers,
Your mouth hot on mine.
That all was fine,
But you wanted more proof
That I cared about you–
You had spent money on me,
And I had given nothing in return.
You felt burned–
Where was a steaming casserole
Full of pasta and beef,
Arranged with sausage and cheese,
All underneath that luscious canopy
Of melted mozzarella?
These would have been the levels
Of deliciousness to cement
My honorable intentions.
But instead I appeared
Like every other superficial wench,
Out to finagle fleeting fragments
Of base bodily bliss.
Yet there is so much more
To human existence
Than that initial layer
Of physical desire;
That first kiss on the beach fire;
That want to dance naked in the moonlight madness;
That can’t go a day without your touch sadness;
That need your voice in the night lustcraze;
That lost in the smell of you dreamdaze…
A friend in a poetry workshop shared this challenge with me from a few weeks ago: write a poem about desire. “Lasagna” was my response.
Image from Pixabay.
©️2020 Paula Light and Light Motifs II. No unauthorized use permitted. Please check out Paula’s books for sale on Amazon.