wing and spring

Like a well-bred debutante 
with a chicken wing, 
she gnawed me 
interestedly. 
While I 

for my part 
imbibed her whole, 
in face and form 
like a hidden spring.

Yet later we compared notes 
and themes, from that symphony
momentously met. She said

I was the one 
with chicken-eyes. 
And she'd been the one 
drinking in my sweat. 

I was going to protest 
"that's gross" but her laugh 
like bells tolled the tale, 
she was kidding me there. 

She can kid all she likes! 
But her eyes still gnaw
me to bone,

and her spring? 
One sip
still strips me bare.