was like. . .
and her hands
well. . .
let's just say
Don’t be afraid to let things
overlap to touch the edges
(not yet with the tongue) because
the eyes must first lick the legs
with lashes, wish small hairs above the wrists
where veins meet blue and raised
and blood rushes itself to answer
and the lips touch not the lips (there)
but here—the lips reach here—
to the ear who needs to know who
hears when the dip behind the knee folds
over and the tongue
(remember the tongue behind the teeth?)
pitches itself into pink and rose, colors of the wheel
when it spins and the world tastes like dear god.
Lick your blade down the steel
in quick strokes, like polishing
a riding boot. Consider the meat:
pleurotus eryngii, commonly the king
trumpet, king oyster, or French horn,
cardoncello in Italian. Certainly
something you could play or blow,
a full six inches of pale flesh,
capped in desert brown, dimpled head
shading the gilled throat.
Wrap the shaft with your hand,
lay it sideways on the board,
feel it resist as you angle the knife
and push it in.
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