We’d agreed the shallow sweetness
of milk chocolate didn’t satisfy, that we needed
a bitter flavour barely tempered by sugar,
a chocolate that bit back.
Tonight you release the yellow moons of potatoes
from their skins. I listen to the shiver of lentils
sieved through fingers. Cool as beads.
I weigh flour, measure sugar.
Without thinking I touch a cocoa-powdered finger
to my skin. Later you will lick clean
the bowl of my neck,
and I will bite back, learn your flavour.
It will not be akin to milk or sugar.
