That: after-waking, sardine-silver tornado
swirling, reaching taste-grips,
and blooms,  not buds,

checking what and where.
I’ve been reading about savory
when I thought all I needed to know

was salty— my seventh grade science project
now trash.  I traced and colored
an enormous tongue for it.  This “sweet,”

this “bitter,” etcetera.  Here this, here that.
And just Sunday I touched your tongue quickly, with
not a lick of guide.  But you told me to taste

your lower lip.  And I shied.  Souring.
My mushroomed tongue lovely
in some decadence of forest, quiet,

breath-done, I kissed you mouth closed.
I don’t want to think when kissing.
I want to kiss.

In French, a raccoon is a “little washing rat”
and I love that.  Raton laveur.
My little one.  With kissing,

I think of raccoons and their hands,
their floody hands.  Praying for the peace
of a pond, then nothing. 

When you’re telling me where to lick,
try instead the cleverness of a thoughtless tornado—
flicks and swirls till the land’s a devastated after-sex.

All senses so close.
The taste, the scent, the touch.
And I’ll tell my gratitude like a raccoon’s.

I’ll touch what I want.
And I’ll lick my hands after.

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