I don’t care what my neighbor thinks,
I like to watch my husband
on the lawn untangling
holiday lights. I’m hotter
than a mosquito banging
its legs elastic against
the bare sun of a back porch bulb,
the way my man’s out there,
cable muscled between
two clenched thighs,
his lit hands diddling
the red nubs, releasing them
from their knotted misery.
You can hear the grass sigh
as he bends and gathers
his bright world in,
half-moon mouth of a Hanes
Beefy Tee sagged open,
the escaping smoke
of chest hair. Later,
he’ll sneak up, pull
me close leaned over
a roast chicken fresh
from the oven’s ringed inferno.
Blindsided, I won’t know
meat from man: rosemary,
heat, a fine sweat
blasting our tender hips,
spooning the gold juice
so the flavor penetrates,
recurs deep inside
that gnawable dark.