by Carmen Mason
Every thing was tongues
the lapping candle flames
cloud tails above then
paper-thin eggplant singed
and curled at the
edge near the endive
portobellos fat and lush
he licked the cigar
its end coming unraveled
smoke lapping the window
of the car; later
pink-tongued rose petals
his tongue around hers
and after deepandmany kisses
he’d sucked her tongue
so hard it felt
ripped from the center
torn from the red
wet tunnel that lived
without shame, without censure
for food and words
and flesh and wine
and so much more.
In the morning she
was worried she could
not speak…..she sucked
on ice…..she said
ahh…she said yes.
*Allen Ginsberg once said to choose any four words and then write groups of four lines or something like that.
I have been writing poems all my life. They are sighs of joy, cries for help, testaments of love and loss, refuge and epiphany. They surprise, console and astound me. Just like friends and strangers do.