The tongue conformed itself
around this large glossy darkness,
a groove cut from its own kernel, whose tartness cut
the overwhelming sweetness of the tongue congealing
around the seed.
The very notion of sweetness, what is sweetness, how does the flesh
cloy to its core, the buttery white flesh
of the tongue.
It had no
meaning in itself, only that it gathered
and recorded the seeds to its milky, furred breast,
an embrace meant to
disclose that the tongue was ready and
redundant in its velvet pocket of flesh.
Gray, soft, tidal. One had no need to decide
whether to trust it. A key that is good in any lock. It recurs. It told us
about skin. How skin
is a form of sleep, visible from no measurable
distance. Yes, skin
Coming closer. Lock-picking drowse.
lock wrapping its leg
and skin into the burr
of the key. Sweat, curl. Lost in sweat,
sleep hushes its own bolt and catch. Lost in
surge. Yes, a cloud that stole by us as we implored it for sleep, asked
it to put our hair and pelt
back to us. It trusts us, and not
us trusting it. Regular as
gray is regular.
Elizabeth Robinson spent a month at the Djerassi Resident Artists’ Program this fall and will return to Montana as the Hugo Fellow in the spring of 2013. Her most recent books are Counterpart (Ahsahta) and Three Novels (Omnidawn).