Pithy, pink hunk
of muscle and spit;
sphynx to my throat,
to my lover.
[lengua, n.
1. tongue or
2. language
so to speak two languages, I suppose,
is like having two tongues
so to speak.]
And I’m a mummy’s boy;
I’m cradled by my mother
tongue. Only now I’m trying
to force my way into another
and find myself
bashing against the teeth.
Father,
I stumble in my walk.
(Call me tongue-tied.)
For example,
does my mother know
I’m tongue-kissing boys now?
That “sorry” hangs always on the tip of
my tongue –
(can you taste it?)
Later,
gnashing at prayer,
apologies sweat off my tongue –
an interdental repentance –
where my lips part
and syllables spill through.
You see that’s why
(what I’m trying to say)
I didn’t mean to say
“I love you”.
Sometimes I think
I think with
my tongue.