Take the white and tie it beneath the rock.
Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.
Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.
Water flows over rocks the color of your feat;
white breaks like bracken, green tongues
swirling like eddies.
Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!
Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, and everything, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.
Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.
Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel that he disliked her gingerbread cookies:
She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.
Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?
You shushed kisses into her ears, felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
furling and unfurling of tongues, echoed in the dancing of the bracken, floating between round rocks
that once held white foam, between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.
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