Restaurant

Original Text: 
Margaret Christakos, Excessive Love Prostheses (Toronto: Coach House Books, 2002): 68.
1On an island once I caught her by the elbow,
2tossed her onto juniper, kind of prickly, you know,
3yanked the cases off her thigh pillows,
4got my tongue out to slurp the wet mess
5of her pussy. What a day. We had a picnic:
6chips, cheese, shit like that, cold
7beer. I stuck the icepack up her shirt
8and woo-hoo, those nipples shot up like chess rooks.
9I fucked her like a bishop, all right, and
10Checkmate! it was so great I almost cried.
11You know, if you cry in front of a chick
12she'll go down on you like a scuba diver.
13You can be immense then, warm geyser.
14I look at it this way, a woman's mouth
15it's kind of a restaurant. You can spout off,
16order anything you want, extra this, sub that,
17as long as you have the cash, ask for it hot,
18fresh, catch of the day, the dinner special.
19As long as you use your words, decently,
20she'll serve you really well.
21But if you treat her like a self-serve gas bar, her smell
23those fine breasts so far on the other side away from you
24you'll feel lost forever.

Notes

22] ka-ching ka-ching: sound of a cash register. Back to Line
RPO poem Editors: 
Ian Lancashire
RPO Edition: 
2011
Rhyme: 
Form: 
Special Copyright: 

Copyright © Margaret Christakos and used by permission of the poet. Authorization to republish this poem must be obtained from her in writing.