I am a handful of soft, red fruit. I sit heavy waiting for you. Oozing sweetness, I sweat a love sweat. Crimson satined and chambered, I wait for the touch of the match, laying my tongue on the carpet like a fuse. I am a soft, red fruit exploding in your mouth. The taste of a Picasso painting, all bulls and warm blood. I have a roundness that your hands need. When I am touched I hold back, willing you to devour me, like Eskimos lapping up the still-beating heart of a seal kill. I am whole. I am naked. I am ready.
From 'The Body Banquet Poems' by Carla Jetko