It is with great regret that I choose
To be expunged from history as a mere mortal.
My tongue tastes love – the flavor
The crumbs, the meat – and nothing
Else surprises me any more than
What the tongue is capable of.
For instance, a tongue can turn a switch
On with a few gentle strokes,
And that switch powers an electrical circuit,
Sending shockwaves to all parts of my wife’s body
Making her convulse like a bout of epilepsy,
And she looks at me, smile slinging
From her face, pushing my face down.
I do my dues, like a pilgrim at a tabernacle
An act that by definition, makes
My wife a lot like Sheba, as mentioned
In Christian scriptures, as “the queen
Of the south”, who was a little hairy
In all the wrong places, as Solomon found out.
She took me in, cradled me to her comfort, and all she
Asked me was to oar through the currents,
As deftly as my phosphorus tongue
Pressed against her tinderbox flint. There was music,
The siren sang, until the banshee leapt out,
Like a phantom from her wilderness.
Everything good had to come to an end,
And I knew I was now her champion
And what else could I ask her but
To uncork a bottle of expensive champagne.
Her eyes were prowling like a tigress
And she crept in, sling-shot smile
Going from ear to ear, the wine
Bubbling below. There was always an art
To pouring champagne to a glass,
Which the French call, a champagne flute,
Champagne, like the wind, blows
Through the hollow flute, as Sheba and I,
We make our room filled with nature’s sounds
Treble in particular, playing octaves,
That like fortissimo, start to grow on you.
We are music makers by our nuptials, learning that
There are no rules to love. String and woodwind,
In accompaniment, they always make beautiful music,
Like our rapturous duet, that becomes
To the orthography of sheet music,
Nothing short of, a full score.