There's a word unused.
The taste of your twenty-four years resounds
in my lips and loins, both sets.
With my blackberry brambles unshaven,
worth it if you can part the thicket.
My legs unshaven, I lie between two,
draped in too large, five-year-old pink underwear,
a hole at the mons pubis,
where she has just stuck her finger
and she's touching me where you do.
she's touching me where you did.
She's touching -
suddenly, he too -
the sweet thin-lipped gryphon, so fierce and clawed,
that mane and those
teeth are at my nipples,
worrying.
(I can't help how distracted I get
when she brushes by on her double-bodied journey,
something lives in her breasts
that are the same as yours -
you're both swimmers,
it may be the muscle,
it might be the heart)
Are you old enough to forgive me?
Am I?
Is forgiveness suddenly age related
is this how it happens
does the truth of love in one direction become a granite
in place of graphite?
Because when I draw you in my mind's eye,
it isn't tender or soothing or nuturing anymore -
my red blood cells got a fine arts degree,
changed mediums while I wasn't looking,
and your visage is being chiseled
into the alabaster walls of my final resting place.
Someone kisses me so hard I taste iron.
her mouth is teasing out my secrets,
and I am making the noises you do
making the noises you did in the bathtub, on the trampoline,
in your roommates bed -
until silence rushes up my toes and the weight
of November pulls my eyes back
and I am straining into her while he holds me down,
I am whispering
swallow me
swallow me
she is an ocean where you are stars
she is an ocean where you were
