If you were to whisper into my ear
I’d respond with a tale of a morning
at the market where I filled my bag
with pattypan squash and heads of garlic
and tell you of the quick hot flush
for the man who had your shoulders

If you were to whisper into my throat
I’d trill the song of the wood thrush
“tutut-eee-o-lay-o-eeee” who
composed the score for my solitary
diddle under the hickory tree

If you were to whisper into my bosom
I’d breathe sharp nutmeg steam
over eggshell china - a corner cafe
cinnamon sprinkled on cream
like the freckles on my pale breasts

If you were to whisper into my navel
I’d begin to babble and plead in
pagan prayers until I’d lost all words
in vowels fallen from my lips