Spiced chocolate

I stumble into the sharp edges of love 
for women who gift me spiced chocolate.
How do they know? I can’t remember 
ever confessing in public, 
thought I had been careful
to declare no preferences 
beyond small talk’s necessities:

For sunlight to descend dappled 
through the cottonwoods,  
for the damp weight of forest air 
to be lifted by an ocean zephyr, 
to contemplate Copithorne’s letters, 
die inside Baldwin’s lines, float away 
to Davis over Parker. But never 

such an embarrassment of egoism. 
Tropical hillsides around the equator
whisper what I am not worth
before I can dream of buying myself 
the expensive taste of bittersweet chiles. 

Yet she stands at my door, has 
hand-ribboned a small box
of Mexican lightning for me, 
cocoa so electric
it will still her name 
in my mouth 
as it burns