“First Kiss, With Tongue”
c.2000, Miriam M. WynnI am being moved,
wrapped around your body
your warmth and gentleness the very thing that anchors me
so seemingly safe, so seemingly warm
when under the coals are flames.that mouth, a pair of lips so singularly determined:
they were gentle, they were misleading,
they started slow and exploratory and now turn into
a quietly forceful vacuum to swallow up my will;taken,
learning still what it is to be a victim
willing, because that’s what I secretly want;
have not admitted so much yet
but your lips are finding it out,
your tongue is eating up the details,
and I could swear I am not ready,
but please, please, just a little more–you pull it from me,
tug my willingness out of me,
more than I meant to give but I don’t mind at all;I am surrounded in a dark place by
the sound of your breath, hot and heavy,
for the first time, for my first time,
a loud and drugging echo that pulls on me,
takes me with it, waves that are molding me,
molding my response;your tongue is slick on the bottom,
a little rougher on top,
soaking wet velvet that distracts me,
delves me, pushes in beneath the skirts while I’m too
disoriented to push them down,
and I just hold your head/tongue,
lost in being taken advantage of.
your mouth is greedy,
your breath upon my skin a pleasant funk of
sweet merlot,
wet, wet, like the perfect bouquet that I am
getting drunk off of, smothered by,
filled with, am inhaling,
your breath a faint chinese dinner
but sweet, sweet–that sweetness swallows,
demands, insistently,
is oh so very cultivated about doing something
so very selfish,
and when the mouth and tongue have reached my neck
I am silently begging for a bite.teeth are behind those lovely lips
yet they don’t make purchase, not yet
and so I imagine being kissed like this forever,
ever sucked, grasped, trapped,
swallowed whole like liquid through a straw,
like water down the drain,
like the quivering fruit of the tree
that begs to be eaten and suffers each bite, each lick,
each thrust toward inevitable loss of self,
with an exquisite and doomed joy.