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The Reservation by Pamela Wilonski
 

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  • The Reservation

    Early in the morning he meets her,
    the same room, # 267, once a month.
    For weeks they ferment, waiting
    to savor the hardy flavor of each other;
    they lap each other up with ferocious appetites
    on a bed of hardwood and thick, clawed feet.

    Mid afternoon with her skin poured
    like silky milk over the bed sheets,
    he leaves her to go pick up Chinese take-out.
    He returns to find her partially dressed
    sitting up on her knees in their borrowed bed,
    the essence of them savored in her mouth.
    She fears he may have had his fill of her.
    But he opens the button that holds her
    together letting silk fall like warm caramel.

    They devour what he brought back
    only to fill the void.
    Ravenous, they leave nothing unclaimed.
    They cling to the abundance
    and gorge themselves with the
    opulent taste that lay steaming.
    They viciously settle the starvation
    that simmered for weeks;
    they lick their platters clean.

    At 7:00 the trash can swells
    from empty food containers.
    Satisfied, he dresses her,
    fitting her tender breasts
    back into the satin bra.
    He presses his lips over each one holding it
    like a precious droplet of ripe honey.
    He lifts her under garments up over her hips
    smoothing them with his hands.
    Her blouse, he drips over ivory shoulders
    and seals each button closed with a kiss.

    Wearing the delicious scent of her,
    he heads home to his wife.

    Pamela Wilonski
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