Marshmallow

Chips of raw ice tease the coals
and make them behave themselves;
no fingers of flame can grow
to spoil our even cooking.
Your Georgia girl drawl smolders.

You are sunned khaki in your
cream socks and custard shoulders.
This slow burning fills us both.
The charcoal smoke covers us;
we are drunk with it and run.

A bag of smooth marshmallows ---
We rip our wonder open
and thrust the crooked wires through
soft, powdered flesh and you turn;
twist the skewer in the wound.

You point it at the moon,
say it looks like another
marshmallow, comes down like glue;
viscous like molasses running down
the hot spit into our palms,

melting down along your arms ---
along your blonde arms my arms
touch the stuff around your bones.
Your tongue reaches for the moon.

Something in me can taste you:
it stirs and turns in my stomach.
It moves under all our words;
deeper down than that, it purrs.