His throat is long
like an egret’s, elegant
as a bride’s dress,
and sits squarely
atop his torso
like a pillar
candle.
His throat meets
his strong jaw, a pair
of triangles
that flair afar
from his pointed
chin which mirrors
the length of his nose.
His throat is lithe
and sinewy and
soft even though
its core is strands
of muscle like garland
wrapped around the Christmas
tree of discs and cartilage.
His throat is a target
for the sky jumper of kisses
which land atop the softness
of his skin.
My kisses, like planted bulbs
drawn down to the pools
of his clavicle.
His throat is my envy.
They are almond
They’re all aliases. Each and every one including Otter, Pup, D., Luciano, Jean-Baptiste, Sao Paulo, Isaiah, Corey, Calhoun, Mark, Michael IV, Micheal VII, Jeffrey, and yes, Rodrigo.
about what they’ve said and how they shared it with me; I’ve described flanks, and torso’s, and buttocks, and faces, and waffling and pancaking (Rodrigo and I waffle).
write a blog on the internet. But keeping the identity of lovers sacrosanct was something I hadn’t bothered to worry about. Who wouldn’t want to read about themselves on the internet?
