She Tastes Like Spring by Kristin Garth

after Servant

Patters her toes in the rhythms of rain, 
torturing the thirsty she is eager 
to drain of any flittering vain
hopes that remain in sad bowed meager 
heads in the sand.  Her species perfects 
this technique before the invention 
of man.  In school she learns to dissect 
them with patrician hands, an intuition
of serpents an apex predator still 
understands even diminished to 
ribbons,  teeth.  Remembers ancient thrills
of consuming what lies beneath.  If you 
squint your eyes right she looks like a plaything. 
The last thing you’ll think is she tastes like spring.