Your last batch of half-assed suitors, Susanna,

Were trying to eat your sweet milk with a fork.

Why were they content just to lap at the traces

Of rich drops they never let get to their lips?

What were those tight fools thinking about

When they felt themselves coming home to you?

Had their cats slipped out of the bag,

Or had they found better uses for juices?

I drank with my lips, I lapped like a cat,

I wasn’t afraid to tip your cup up

In our long lovely feasts of the true food of love

When even my spoon had its proper allure.

The body furnishes unsuspected nourishment,

This I found, when I lived in your house,

And live to this moment on what you provided:

Pap for the child, juice for the lover,

And secretions for all our creations.