Lick

If I could trace my tongue from your tailbone

to top-head, I would. Ten digit-tips,

each a finger of sweet tiramisu,

each a miss-you, each a morsel, each you

alive in the quick-lick gasp and shudder-moan

you make between my metacarpal trips.

I’m not finished. My licks turn to lips

upon your biceps, armpits, nipple-isles,

simple pitstops on the ocean surface

as I hit the coral hip bone, basking

like a shark, plank in my hands, plankton-touch

tingling through my tongue, gone spelunking.

Here we find the eel, arrow pointed straight

to cave, warm currents cruising ev’ry wave,

making courses from top-hair to tailbone

as I rail your name and you, mine; taste

those lips to meet your smile, pillow pastries

pursed for guava-tongue, teeth of requeijão.

In this smile-seeming abyss, I am yours,

connoisseur and master diner, devouring

dates wrapped in bacon, baked in rum, apple

bottom-savored someone prone to nonsense:

I lick to love if licking liking move,

Ply the lava loose, and lick his plate smooth.