One of Many in a Series

Smooth but imperfect
Ah, such bitter saltiness
–shh, still now little bird
The smell of fear weaves around us like a silk sheet
The mounds heave for my attention
one slice
two slices
three slices…
Each imperfection I make correctly, eagerly yet not hastily
My knife gives special loving everywhere
My hands flutter along her smooth skin
My tongue tastes her red essence as it becomes free
so much, so beautiful, so close to perfection
My little bird, can you hear me?
–shh, we still have much do.