In the crêpe restaurant I want to lick
the waiter’s wrist when he arrives
deftly balancing the plate of folded citron,
flexing so the two arm bones
make a shallow valley
that peeks from his starched sleeve,
but my tongue presses against the back of my teeth
instead of lunging for the wrist.
My cheeks twinge at the sight of the lemon.


I’m with my two bearded friends, not alone.
Not alone, but in my thoughts—
quite alone.
We are lit from below with candles.
Our food arrives on time.
We dissect it, share bites and order more wine.
I love them both.
Their bristled faces scratch my cheek when we embrace.


My raw façade unfolds like a mille crêpe
that melts onto the table as we split the check.
We are a triumvirate of fearful lovers,
watching the syrup of the unknown, the wicked, the truth
drip down onto our empty plates.