the tongue recognizes sweet
in a way the rest of the body cannot.
i have often settled
for what the tongue can discern
long before any further consideration had been given.
your tongue and mine have done so much
sticky damage,
liquid language.
i swallowed your sap and chased it with saudade.
swollen glands,
clogged nectaries,
a thirst for things
i cannot extract.
am i spoiled,
soiled,
irrelevant?
has my drought
turned ambrosia to vinegar?
or is there still a drop of wine for a pleasure filled sip?
i take on the charge because it is the cross my flesh bears well
worn, etched,
a song on loop that’s lost elasticity
yet retains
a charge
tripped up
by knowing that what we seek
is what we have not yet learned to give ourselves.
fat queen,
sticky damage,
liquid language
— content control.
my bones
broad, brothed, thickened
with contempt and stained with gratitude
cancel each other to inertia
and sometimes
despair
takes a firm grip
but doesn’t know where to lead.
the maps,
coffee and donut
ringed holes faded
circles sketched
into doodled patterns of paisley spirals
hinting at levity,
but repetition can’t lie.
sticky content has a craft all its own,
a power i yearn to master.
we had our sweet moment.
liquid language
can disguise itself well
until the tongue
learns to be less self absorbed.
what are we to feel when faced with a truth not yet sanctioned?
i’d like to know, no
lies.
how desensitized we have i become?
my sap and yours — o sweet nectar.
we had a moment
a moment ago.
didn’t we?
i trace a pattern
around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and
around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and
till i’m head high from all the wildflowers with their suffocating syrup.
think i’ll stick
with my proboscis — the simpler discovery tool.