She won’t want to write about food tonight.
Won’t want to describe the texture of pork
when cooked as a loin, or pounded, or jerked
(whatever could become of  a pig). White
space is not a China plate when words rate
like low-end wine. Won’t want to describe Brussels
sprouts like unopened rose buds – no muscles
in that metaphor – and really can’t wait
for inspiration like an unfilled water glass.
The bed and the man in it are downstairs.
She’s eaten well, and drunk even better;
by all rights, she should have succumbed to bliss.
Give her time to digest tonight’s fare,
wait for the repeat of each spiced letter.

Jen Karetnick