Here, we listen with our tongues, mouths always
open. When his tongue searches the damp
cellar of my throat, he recalls
stories I’ve forgotten, recites the name
of every lover that’s ever kissed
the inside of my armpits. He knows
what I want and what I don’t
like about the way he reads the history
of my hair as if each strand
were a declarative sentence.
He tells me I’m too eager to please.
You must learn to take, to say “give me”
graciously. He likes what’s inside–
not soul, or metaphysical heart but the real
blood-chugging organ: its russet
muscularity; the way it blooms
bright as an anthurium beneath the white
trellis of ribs; its allegretto beat. The sweeping
of blood through ventricles is sexier
than breasts, he declares as he places his tongue
on my wrist, tells me to pay attention
to the vignettes of legs, the backsides
of knees, for each cell holds a story.
Open your mouth, he says. Leak
the letters of your name into my lungs,
the milkweed smell of your skeleton,
the bloodroot of you
open. When his tongue searches the damp
cellar of my throat, he recalls
stories I’ve forgotten, recites the name
of every lover that’s ever kissed
the inside of my armpits. He knows
what I want and what I don’t
like about the way he reads the history
of my hair as if each strand
were a declarative sentence.
He tells me I’m too eager to please.
You must learn to take, to say “give me”
graciously. He likes what’s inside–
not soul, or metaphysical heart but the real
blood-chugging organ: its russet
muscularity; the way it blooms
bright as an anthurium beneath the white
trellis of ribs; its allegretto beat. The sweeping
of blood through ventricles is sexier
than breasts, he declares as he places his tongue
on my wrist, tells me to pay attention
to the vignettes of legs, the backsides
of knees, for each cell holds a story.
Open your mouth, he says. Leak
the letters of your name into my lungs,
the milkweed smell of your skeleton,
the bloodroot of you
