.The Gun Moll.I once fell for a fancy man;More Like This
a man so pale and
d e l i c a t e l y boned
that the first time I saw him
s t r [e t c h e d] out in my bathtub
like something that had been filleted.
Fancy Man was a salesman,
and we spent most of our nights
in expensive restaurants
where one glance would have told anyone
that we were poorly matched.
His plates were always an artful tableaux.
Crispy little birds --
hovering on pools of brightly colored purees
and cunningly arranged fruit desserts
encased in spun sugar cages
had a childish paint-by-number quality:
red meat and green vegetables
followed by a little something chocolate.
Fancy Man tolerated my indifference toward haute cuisine
as long as he could,
until the evening
r e a c h e d
across the table,
tapped the tines of his fork on the edge of my plate
and hissed, "You eat like a gun moll."
It wasn't as bad as it sounds.
He meant that I eat passionately,
with an appetite that comes out of desire
and not from w