|Jan/Feb 2001 Poetry|
The smell of your sweat
is like washing your name in sand,
sprinkled on my alter of trashy gods.
I've seen the illustrations
in pillow books from India and Nepal.
The courtesans wear brightly colored make-up,
the men enter drug-induced trances.
They're undressing for sex, and I wonder
if they'll taste the salty star of armpits,
if they'll lick every drop of dew
from every crevice, every fold, every hole
I've plunged my darting tongue into.
The Heretic's Wish
I'm an atheist tilting
my head between your legs.
You can't see my half-closed eyes
or the way I'm holding your cock
in my mouth. My tongue
is incoherent whispers
in seams I've wished undone.
Haunting untranslatable skin,
I half-smile, half-drown.
I feel your hand touch confetti
damp in the strands of my hair.