Du beurre et de l'amour by Tom Barlow

you there / lost in sleep in the luxury

of our thousand-dollar Paris suite

while I'm wide awake four a.m. /

I have a spatula and a bell crock of butter

so I start glazing your forehead /

and just as on your morning toast the butter

softens on contact / spreads so smoothy /

yet you don't wake / I move on to your

cheeks and chin with little swirls like

icing a wedding cake / you give a soft

snort of delight but that's probably

just a dream / you are always so happy

in your dreams

I glide the spatula down your neck

onto your square shoulders / this is

the best butter I could find / straight

from Ireland / contented cows / there are

things I would not do for you / but we

haven't found one yet

I take care to butter both breasts

waking your nipples / yet you dream on /

then across your midriff with long smooth

strokes like my oar the way I paddle

toward a rare bird I am loath to disturb /

I circle the vortex of your navel then

move down to your labia which I butter

oh so very, very gently / you grin in your sleep

then on to your thighs / the streetlight

reflects from the slathered muscles

where your workouts show / and the knees

that protest in the morning but delight now

in lubrication / and on to calves, ankles,

and with great care I butter each pinkie /

nails and all / Now to just wait for sunrise /

and the feast