13
Lovers Learn to Howl Their Names
Floor wet and dirty we learn
our names in the language
of bodies. I could call you
Hip-thrust, Long-lashes,
Cuticle-bite, Honey-eyes.
You could call me Teeth-grit,
Open-mouth, Clit-dick, Cock-lust—
I lap your up skin like salt lick.
Look to find what caress
will make the dormant vines
resting outside the rusted-shut windows
want to invade us. Call it Common,
call it Jasminum-officinale,
we know it as Poet-jasmine—
it blooms like we do—falsely
innocent in virginal white.
A heady scent that betrays
want, desire. I want to come
with you buried in jasmine.
Your tongue penetrates the open space
of my mouth. The vines scratch
at the window panes—our tongues
meet and outside the twinings
dance as they unlatch the frames
and slip inside like your hair
between my fingers, like fists
of leaves—ready, one two three!—
thrown in the air and you fall
around me. We bleed, moment
with movement, our existence—
in waves the way flowers bloom:
sweat, tears, semen secretions.
We smell of the unspoken sins
mothers warn children about—
the Holy vulgar musk of bodies