I want bread.
We watch the dough rise,
lapping at
spilling over the edges of the bowl.
Kneading.
.
Fingers and palms wrapped,
buried in the flesh of the dough.
Folding. Stretching. Bending.
Pressing deeply, firmly.
.
Let it rise. Wait. Bake.
.
Your tan fingers
wrapped around my white hips,
squeezing so the flesh rises up around your fingers.
Leaving indentations.
Needing.
.
We scorch our fingers
on the bread
too hot from the oven.
I lick the melted butter
running down the back of your hand.