Where the sentence begins: article, noun (subject), verb,
preposition, a second article, adjectives, another noun (object),
maybe a comma or dash, prepositional phrase, a clause
or two, the infrastructure meandering but intact, intimate
scaffolding bearing the weight of “love” or “death” —
of “you” and “me” and “now” and “quick” — including but not
limited to breasts, wrists, ankle bone, testicle, left elbow,
lower lip, stations of the body blessed by tongue, by darkened
voice, our rapt attention polishes the whole: spit-glazed
nipple, rough shadow of stubble, swollen veins in neck
and cock, the throb and lift, the terrible, wonderful friction
craved, imagined, built to slowly, all too brief, arch
of back and trembling knees — O please! — the pounding heart
subsiding slowly, slowly, til it’s just a noun again, returning
to its steady beat of subject, verb, adverb, object, softened
breath, tenderness, dash, amplitude, comma, memory, period.
Copyright 2022 Molly Fisk
Molly Fisk’s books include The More Difficult Beauty (Hip Pocket Press, 2010)
“stations of the body blessed by tongue” Oh! Beautiful poem.
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Indeed!
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Holy Cow!
Wow.
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