Bacon

Sun slides up
The greasy pan grows white when ignored
On the counter with translucent paper towels

He likes his extra crispy
Breaks pieces between his two middle fingers
A seductive snap before bites

Three across on the china plate
Tally marks, one down, two to go
As delicate brown melts on his tongue

The sweaty aroma hangs on the morning
Eggshells listen to their pan companion
Crumbling, fragile in his hands

His crunches stifle my carefully crafted
Conversation of headlines, wars. He hears
The sweet crack of ruffled ribbons

The perfect perfume, he announces
Would smell like bacon, tasting tomorrow’s
Glistening fat, he rubs his belly

A pink slab that trembles when touched
I think to the mirror
Or when his arms close around my waist

If this was a choice: bed or breakfast
Does he want me
With a large orange juice?