Preparing To Grill © John Johnson | Dreamstime Stock Photos

When properly smoked,
The meat of my tongue
Melts in his mouth
Like unctuous grease
From spitfire-skin:
Roasted, succulent,
Charred to perfection,
Falling off the bone.

He girds up his loins
To cloister borrowed time,
And I taste the slip —
Digging nails inside the slit —
As he slinky-slides in,
Prim as a pin.

She casts her gaze away
But watches him stray
Through fanned fingertips.

Girl, do you wanna get in on this?
If so, let me know,
And I’ll ask him
If three’s a crowd,
Or just the right amount
For a fucking feast.

I’ll leave you the marrow to suck,
At least.

grilled sausage

Grilled Sausage © Mozzyb | Dreamstime Stock Photos

© Jane Bled

Note: leave the pitchforks and scarlet letters at home, folks — this is a fictional piece based on an experience I’ve never had, like the majority of my works. 😉