Chips

I had that dream again.
You’d made a pit out of pillows and a tarp.
Filled it with chips.
A fantasy you explain,
not yet a fetish.

You thrill to the crunch of chips on tarp,
oil on skin,
spices on lips
and revel in the sting of salt in scores of scratches,
but me you fuck with indifference.

The pit is gone
when your husband arrives.
He sniffs the air like a balding middle-aged blood hound
“CHIPS!” He snarls.

You drop your glass
it shatters
and I wake up.

1 Comment »

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