Chocolate

Her arm spasms, splashing
a hot mocha. She slashes
her eyes through the crowd
for eavesdroppers, hunches her shoulders around
the mess and mops it
with hoarse whispers. Was it "let's fuck!" blurted

across the table that caused her to flinch?
She was smooth over old times
and good to see you. Behind her spoon
cocoa folded like a lover's arms.
Did something let go
in her back, a sudden release
of things held tight? She squeezed

my hand and pleaded
for something she already has
at home. Doesn’t need it from me.
But her lips on the rim of her cup
keep secrets, and she continues to stir.