Margherita

It began as a flirtation,
with me gnawing on your crunchy outer rim
like a firm ring of Saturn –
not colorful or rocky,
but solid, circular, celestial –
to me, your attraction’s main event, really,
before sliding seductively underneath your middle
and becoming almost an afterthought of your taste.
Meshed with the red of tomatoes –
as if thrown in anger at your middle
by a gang of brazen hecklers,
then splattering haphazardly,
your oaf-like mozzarella pieces
stained and stunned innocent bystanders,
rubbery and flimsy, half-melting in defeat
at the inevitable heat of it all.
Oh, but the savoring of all that came later.
Every day –
12:06 p.m. to be precise –
the sturdy kite of your sweetness overspreading the air,
tails of
oregano
garlic
basil
trailing behind.