I made dill pickles last summer.
The weather fared well and the crop was strong.
I used gran’s recipe, as I always do.
“This will give comfort through the sparse times.”
She passed it down only to me.
Full and firm, each makes me hunger as I bring it into bed.
I paint my lips and breasts and belly with it’s body.
The sharp brine makes my skin tingle.
The scent rises with my heat.
Wanton, wanting, I take it deep, consuming myself before I consume it.
My garden’s ready. Soon I’ll plant again, so new lovers come to life.
