Let us now talk about your waist, saying
the marimba and guitars playing, every part of you begins with music
and ends with a temporary reconciliation of man with God.
The rhinestone waist, porcelain, crushed flowers, hallucinogens
my steps, grinding. My tongue. Your waist, a valediction, fine grain.
Are we now dancing to Arabian drums? No.
It is a long silence, your waist. Anodyne.
It is reading a letter written across time,
I write to my younger self and you are with me burning the letter
Take risks, hold my waist, you say, take me inside your mouth
Where my Rilke and Anne Sexton and Federico Lorca live.
You allow me to misspell adjectives there, you
Let my tongue take in heavy verbs and offer rolled adverbs,
From the conceptualists to jazz improvisation. You are breaking
The wave of my tongue on your tongue when you laugh
Is it possible to come inside my mouth
With your hair held back in pins? A soft tremble nd your mouth like a fish?
I could plagiarize you
From the black tombstone where your waist has been derived,
I must not digress from your waist, that outpost, black place
where the freedom fighters must have hid, you are my ritual,
my goatskin, old wineskin, animal blood, you are at the tip of my tongue
Under long fingers, a bridge from which I can throw myself to life
Ah, life is your waist, circumspect, that quiet dancing when I’m going down on you.