Poetics

Let Us Now Talk About Your Waist.

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.

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