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.