my two front teeth
catch your dewey bottom lip
clamp a bit too tightly
and forget to let go.
of the times when i see you after hours
of not seeing you
and you loom unearthly, fawn-like,
in front of the blood moon.
of the way your hands touch
tomatoes at the farmers market
pick persimmons for the pie
gauging ripeness
with thumbprints with teeth.
pumpkin/lobe
nog/cell
cheese/plasma
sprout/tongue
you feed me
full of intrigue, not worms.
i feed you,
mammal-cozy, no fleas.
and we are swollen with celebration.