She could be a tart fruit, maybe a crisp green apple, soaked in brandy.
Maybe she’s a tangelo spiked with whiskey.
She is definitely birds chirping at dusk beneath pulsing moon
and Pacific waves responding to Neptune transition.
She is not chicken or fish or any other unsavory cliches.
She’s spicy tobacco fresh from the pouch murdering your tender pink tongue.
Those mushrooms twisted deep and low in the forest belong to her.
That incense choked cathedral pierced with stained light might bring her to mind.
No no no. Fuck all of that.
She’s wicked chocolate concoction bubbling on the stove
too terrible in her magic
to ever be anything more
than a smirking tempt.