I want her to drink me,
and I mean it like death.
I want to be a chilled
can of V8 – my girl loves
tomato juice – Spicy, not
Original. I want to be
downed on a perfect drive,
car windows cracked
enough to suck the pollen
in. I want to rub the vernal
dusk from her tongue, caress
the particulate green between
her nubs of taste buds ‘til I
slake it. I want to be held
sweating between her thighs
while she changes lanes.
To be that satisfying. To be
that useful. God, I wish she’d
drink me. Down to the last
drop in our banged-up
Honda. Just her in those cutoff
shorts. The tomato pulp of me
pressed against the inside
of her cheek and swallowed
whole. The end, popped open
like the sound of parting lips.
Like death. I’ve had enough
of my own breath, the engine
of my own relentless need,
the heavy churning of a body
better fated to her thirst.
I want her tongue to be my last
vacation. I want spit and spring
honey and the backs of her teeth.
Liv Strange is a queer autistic poet living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama with their wife and two suspiciously shiny cats. Liv has been eating fistfuls of blueberries and writing about good pain. They really do want to hear about that weird dream you had last night.