Suppose I ask to be
held,
handled,
herded into bed, and invite your sandpaper tongue to rub
my cheekbones flat;
suppose I ask to be split down the middle,
one long jagged cleft. Water cracking cliffs takes eons
but you- I know
there’s a mouth on you.
I see it move around breakfast and an Andrew Bird song,
something about watchers that watch love going about its day,
(Not unlike how I watch you,)
rolling things, words, piecemeal affection around in your mouth,
until they squeeze out from the spaces between your teeth.
What’s up today? What book is that? Read it to me (?)
I will spread myself thin on the coffee table
(all yours, all yours),
and try not to study
the fruit-pulp inside of your thighs.
Instead, I will hear you say things like
“reeling blindly towards annihilation”
and “a bonfire of our resources”
and “deep within the significant break there dwells a boundless violence!”
and pretend you did not just bring another man home.
And as your tongue rolls carpet-back between your lips, I will reach for
your wrist to press it inside-first to my mouth, place
my tongue on your theory, and swallow it whole so you can
read to me
(something kinder).
K.S. is an aspiring writer from South Asia. Their work has appeared in The Daily Drunk, and they have more forthcoming with Koening and Warning Lines.