Give me a girl with garlic on her breath!
Fragrance of warmer air and jugs of wine.
Oh, such a one I'd love half way to death!
Not all the way, I could not spare the time
from thinking of her mediterranean hair,
falling about her shoulders and the wood-
en chopping board, the cloves of garlic there
blithe to be squidged to make her lips taste good.
Sometimes she'll munch mouthfuls of allium raw –
pungent disulphides plating pearly teeth,
promising scented lungfuls and much more.
Ah now I live and breathe, while underneath
the cooker-hood the pasta rolls and boils
as drops of garlic essence she drips in.
Not too much in case the penne spoils
nor so little her perfumed burps seem thin.
As aniseed is to the hunting hound
so hints of garlic urge my manly pride
and when she smoothes the garlic butter round
her person - she can run but she can’t hide.
Keep, if you please, your "Blue Grass" and "Chanel,"
witches' brews that all real ladies scorn.
Let me inhale the aroma I love well -
garlic sweet as sunlight each new dawn.