The Lonely Tongue

Your skin under water at night

always warm, always reckoning.

The story of me under water

with your waiting body, our ancient

skin nearly devoid of need, nearly

remembering our first touch

decades old and hesitant, half

drunk and fully young like kittens

just opening their eyes to find

the pile of small claws already

kneading softly, and I do softly

need your patient body under

water dissolving me to salt grain,

the long history between us

insistent and densely woven.

Our bodies not chemical, or island,

or flying thing, or sea lion slick,

or witch’s face hiding in the sky,

or quilt of regret, or cloud riding

the bare back of the moon,

but strange twins with one tongue

half spoken with lust.

I do not dare to touch you now.