God, how I miss meat.

Meat--hanging from my teeth, slithery

shreds caught between each molar,

spoiling my breath for days

at a time. Yes and I miss meat soft, the

slick fatty strips that slip

when swallowed through throat to gut.

I miss it stringy and tough, ripped

and chewed—

    The chunks in my curries,

the hunks in my freezer

and the still-bleating chops

you’d marinade all afternoon

in mint. How after we ate we’d haul

distended bellies to bed and plan

the next blood-and-muscle meal from

our pillows. Even the word, meat,

which starts at the lips and ends

caught on the canines like a curl

of bacon, hickory-smoked.

Even the steakhouse by the airport

where I first ate ribs, row by cadaverous

row. You grinned at my stained face,

smarmy carnivore, ordered another

babyback batch. And when later

at the runway we said goodbye,

the barbecue stink still on our tongues, our last

kiss was thick as molasses and apricots,

anatomy charbroiling.

It’s been only vegetarians since you.

We feed each other lentils and sour grapes,

my breath is sweet, green and sweet.

We don’t talk of death in the bedroom.

But damn. Some nights, I still dream of meat,

of rare steaks naked on my plate.

I wake salivating, mouth au jus,

incisors sunk into your raw, absent shoulder.