Foreign Food

He smelled of almonds, oranges, star anise;

sweet salt in the curls clinging to crevices,

like vermicelli on a steep-sided panettone.

And where his skin was smooth

the planes of his shoulders

were burned crème caramel.

Hair black as fig,

grown too long and tangled

like the oily linguine we ate in Venice;

the twisted limbs of baby squid impaled

on my fork, raised to his lips.

And later, frantic kisses sharp

with garlic, basil, a peppery tongue thrusting

to lick the inside of my mouth.

He trickled Limoncello down my thighs,

was slender hipped, his buttocks curved

like cantaloupes - and just as sweet.

My husband groans and heaves onto his front.

The lounger's plastic bands striate his skin,

his foolish Speedos struggling.

I baste him with Hawaiian Tropic

until his back is shining,

glistening like a roasting pig.

I'll leave him cook for just a little longer.

His feet will burn,

so I will find a cafe in the square,

sip Ouzo and choose wisely

from the menu.