My Dinner

He says so little, while saying so much

Cooking dinner, he slyly maneuvers behind me, barely touching my body

He leans into my ear, deviously whispering “Ma," snatching my attention away from my sauce

My attention turns from my pots to his voice, his warm

breath, his…

Words

He sends shivers down my spine

Makes knots in my stomach, and creates quivers in my sugar bowl

With his breathe, with his voice, his brevity

I’m no longer cooking, because we’re cooking

With the fire from his desire

He’s ready for my dinner, and I’m ready for him to dine

He can come get it.

His dinner is ready, and I’m serving

No utensils are needed for the sauce we’ve created