Stutterings


He didn't believe in the power of words
to get any message through but the power of his tongue
was to me that night like premature re-birth:

his tongue darting in and out and then around
my recalcitrant ass-hole, his lips on mine
begging them to summon a language

I thought I was always conversant in. Fluency
left me that night just around the moment
I got my ears moistened and his saliva

sucked out of them before it could drip
down my ear lobes just past the rain-gutters
howling with the thunder and rain.

Then he was a boatman on a silent morning
prodding for signs of fish-schools between
the crack in the misty river of my legs.