Prepuce like a monk’s hood or flesh archway
for your glans—soft, pink chickpea I watch swell
at my tongue-tip touch. Your body gives way
to flinching laughs as, between licks, I tell
you it’s Greek for little hill, then grows still
as windless willow while I nibble your
labia—supple minora wings fill
my lips, your moisture a chalice’s pure
nectar. Love, tell me your desire tonight,
this night of exploding stars, this night gods
create worlds to inhabit with fire. Cite
what gesture pleases you. Oh, merely nod
yes as I dive through you, thriving within
this tidal lagoon where all life begins.
Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2009
