The bones and carrots of it.
They say, "A broth of a boy."
They mean, Erotic broth.
Hearts of celery,
heart of you.
I pour and stir, skim,
strain, purify.
The stove's alive with muttering
flames and whispers.
Your hand clasps mine,
lips open.
Salt and sweet,
the broth embraces itself:
it's fat and gold,
the color of large fields in the far west.
Expansive and hot and stupid,
it's what we tell ourselves we want.
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