Your thick-boned though fat-
trimmed, sometimes
even overdone,
I loved.
I smothered you in my gravy,
dipped you in my sauce
rich, licked my fingers,
all up in your crinches.
Now, you, a curtain of skin
hanging from a rod
of echoing bone.
I pull back the curtains:
no meat,
no juice to lube the dry corners
of my mouths,
no sunshine wine to sip
only bone, echo.

Hedon that I am, I hunger for you no more.