They don’t crunch or chew.
The smooth green skin

of their jaw stays still.
No quake of tongue

to whisk a wad from gum
and cheek. No dance of lips

on knife tip or fork tines.
They don’t slip two stems

in the mouth, their eyes up
as their tongue swirls.

No flip. No spin. No hand
to pluck the wet knot

from tongue’s end. No cocked
brow. No grin spreads

to lure and tempt a thought,
to coax a slow walk home

where hands might touch.
They could, but they won’t.