God, he tricked her out that dizzy day, bangles
for her delicious décolletage, bracelets
and rings, so she would twinkle. On the swale they lounged,
and robins clucked and wrens brought their babes
to catch her trinkets flash, his swarthy dash.
Oh, she fed him deviled eggs and giblets,
Southern style, and sudsy beer, and they fell
on fat wedges of Mama’s rhubarb pie.
And she let her dress ride up. From fingers,
dallying, she let him nip sweet gherkins,
Strawberry blush on their skin, they allowed
a shady breeze to lick beneath their shirts.
She kissed each bumpy pickle, then fed, tart,
the bumpy thing to him. How he grinned
when she tinkled, swaying, giggling at his
panted pleasure, at the nibbles he had purchased
with each gewgaw. The best by far, of which, was
the red rhinestone in her navel, quaking
cherry poised in her belly’s custard pie.
And she thrust on last emerald pickle toward
his white incisors, and her dress rode high, so high
above her spangled hips. Breathless the bees
moaned, while she jingled, tingled—murmuring
Oh gherkin gherkin. Oh gherkin gherkin.
--Mark DeFoe, 1995