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April 7, 2016


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.

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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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