Grace & Henry

Grace and Henry lived alone.
Grace preferred it from the bone.
Duck or chicken, broiled or rare,
Grace left not one rib to spare.

Just like clockwork, table set,
Grace beside the quaint dinette.
From the kitchen Henry chopped,
rubbed and sliced, hammered, bopped.

Finally with the perfect spread,
"Dinner's served" so lightly said.
Henry's platter full and wide,
presented for her, placed with pride.

Then, beside her, he would sit.
Candles all around them lit.
From his breast a linen cloth,
around her neck for drops of broth.

Then, a piece he took with care,
tender, juicy, very rare,
placed upon her tiny plate.
He could not bare to make her wait.

With a surgeon's poise and calm,
knife securely in his palm,
Henry cut the choicest part.
It fell just like a work of art.

Then the fork he pressed within
emitting juice so briny thin.
He lifted to her lips in haste,
as to let none go to waste.

Henry watched her bite the meat.
Her smile was his most precious treat.
No sweeter was the richest fruit,
for all was done in its pursuit.

After one she asked for more,
sunk her teeth just like before.
Henry watched her chew so well.
He was defenseless to her spell.

Ate, she did, but hunger small,
Grace would swallow at a crawl.
Henry patient, at her will,
gave her time to get her fill.

But with every single bite
in a manner so polite,
Grace did not refuse his hand,
and soon consumed with full command.

Juices dribbled down her chin,
pleasure beaming from within.
Washed with gulps of cherry wine.
It was not in her to decline.

To share was proper, and was right.
Grace proposed he take a bite.
But of this he would have none.
"No, my dear, not till you're done."

Henry fed her in a trance.
An irresistible romance.
Giddy with her stark delight,
He fed her late into the night.

Then, as Grace was craving more
his eyes turned sour, face was sore.
All the meat had been consumed.
Dinner could not be resumed!

But her pout was so intense.
He watched her in the saddest sense.
No, he must regain the smile.
She must eat more, just for a while.

But what was he to prepare?
All the cupboards now were bare.
There was no food, not ev'n a scone.
And surely nothing on a bone.

Then, he watched her eyes were stern,
looking with such desperate yearn.
Then he saw what caught her gaze,
his eyes burned with fiery craze.

Yes, there was more meat in stow!
Upon the table's shadowy glow.
The cut, the highest in demand.
It was the meat upon his hand.

Then her eyes grew bright and glad.
Henry's wild, obsessed and mad.
Yet tonight her smile he'd see.
A bargain for his misery.

First the pinky, small and fine.
Red and raw, she took her time.
Next the middle, skip the ring,
Oh, such flavor did it bring.

Through his tears he watched her grin.
High and wide as ever's been.
Appetite now full and large,
she had taken total charge.

Next the index, then the thumb,
Red and tender, like a plumb.
On the fifth he left a stub,
his ring required just a nub.

Each was savored ever more.
She groaned and sighed and kicked the floor.
Begged with all her strength of mind.
She never knew he was so kind.

Digits somewhat undercooked,
it did not matter, she was hooked.
All the treasure in the land
could not beat his delicious hand.

Bandaged up to stop the squirt,
the others now would be dessert.
But, he could not have his druthers
with no hand to slice the others.

Since those fingers now were goners
might she shrink to do the honors?
But he could not ask a dame.
Such a thing would be a shame.

So he sadly bowed his head.
He felt so hopeless, filled with dread.
Had he given wee too much?
Would she take him with a crutch?

Then he gazed with eyes so sad.
He would need her help a tad.
Given to his puppy eyes,
she agreed to sooth his cries.

So, her touch caressed his fist.
He looked at her and got the gist,
dropped the knife and felt a tear.
So joyous, gone was all his fear.

Then she raised him to her lips.
Against them brushed his calloused tips.
She seemed to savor every inch,
and clenched her teeth, a lovely pinch.

"What greater pleasure could there be!"
he thought, his smile filled with glee.
"How better could my love be shown,
than my flesh torn from the bone."

But Henry felt her jaw relent.
"Grace, you have my full consent."
But she paused in resignation
or perhaps in contemplation.

Henry shook his head with worry.
Thoughts so wild and in a flurry.
"Won't she take my finest gift?
Will she reject me?" Henry sniffed.

But then he saw her placid gaze
was focused on the candle's blaze.
Yes she would take him, she was hooked,
and only asked her meal be cooked.

He was relieved, and all the same,
she held his flesh above the flame.
A meal Henry would present her,
juicy, hot, pink in the center.

Just three minutes on a side
She marveled at his yummy hide.
Then deep within his index slid.
Sheered with one decisive bid.

When all ten had been consumed,
meal over, he assumed.
But she was only getting started.
Her taste for blood had not departed.

First his ears befell her teeth.
Next, his toes, and then beneath.
Every bite, her smile grew wider,
wrapped around him like a spider.

Then, as Henry's legs grew weak,
tongue so parched and breathing meek,
he saw young Grace remove his liver,
chomp a bite and with lust, shiver.

The cloth around her neck was small.
The blood seeped through onto her shawl.
Henry thought himself a fool.
The tiny napkin, something cruel.

Then she reached deep in his chest
Removed his beating heart in jest.
Asked him if he'd take a taste.
"No, my love, it's yours to waste."