Flesh to Feed

You see her, the beautiful woman,

sitting on a bench in the mall.

She’s hips and angles to be sure, tiny

and full at once. Her lips pout at anyone

who looks between the glossy curtains

of black hair framing her cheeks.

You imagine that she saunters for you,

has chosen her seat because you are close.

Her legs cross and uncross, and cross again.

Her eyes flit, big and brown and lashed.

She’s teasing, you’re sure.

You catch your breath when her elegant

finger brushes over one full breast.

Her flowing dress is strained

over chest as if begging you

to watch. Her skin is like chocolate

and cream dipping and bulging.

You gasp when she slips one strap

off her shoulder, shooting a last

smoldering look to her surroundings.

Your breath is stilled.

She inhales deeply before reaching into

a stroller you hadn’t noticed before

and lifts a small baby out of the seat

into her lap.

She curls him to her breast and slips the fabric down.