He turns his head from mug
To me,
Kisses like teabags hard-pressed
Warmly, against
My bottom lip.
Darjeeling unsugared and forced
Like vinegar over my tongue.

At dinner he chooses
Lasagne Verdi
I am mesmerised throughout by
Specks of green twisting
Round his fork and dive-bombing
Into his mouth.
When his teeth touch mine
I think maybe green leaves slither,
Lubricated by white sauce
Behind my eyeballs.

He always drinks red wine
And proudly displays
Unstained teeth like medals.
After kisses that taste
Like bouquet of glass and cheek-tissue,
I do not need to reapply
My lipstick.
Ultimate Cherry would bleach
These Australian alcohol lips.

In bed he tastes striped,
Red, blue and green toothpaste
Coats his throat.
His teeth are too clean, and
My tongue drags over them like
A tyre on hot road.
I can still feel the vibrations
Of electric toothbrush in the cavity-mouth.
I can taste me, too, beneath
His tongue, wriggling
In wisdom teeth, on the sweet-side
Of his palate.