Litany of the Tongue—Ode to Oral

I have known religions that never asked for faith—

only breath held between thighs,

prayer in the shape of a moan.

I do not speak your name when I descend;

I surrender it.

It is not hunger—

it is compulsion,

an ache beneath the ribs that wakes me at 3 a.m.,

that has me salivating,

dreaming of salt and musk,

your thighs a gospel I study by candlelight.

There is no metaphor for it.

No flower.

No fruit.

Only the flesh of you,

raw as truth,

sweet as sin,

bitter as wanting something I can’t un-want.

I’ve licked the edge of reason clean,

kissed until my jaw ached and my name dissolved in you.

I’ve pulled you apart like a poem,

syllable by syllable,

licked punctuation from your spine.

I’m not a man when I’m between your legs.

I’m a wildling.

I’m a howl.

I’m a starving thing gnawing its own leash.

You taste like every answer I never deserved.

And I keep going back.

Because I want to die sucking the mound of the divine.