by L.A. Mistral
(12/08/04)
In the white taste of wings,
my words pronounce a fisting, a widening.
Your pussy folds out into three parts:
First, how you invite me into
the narrowest parts of you,
desperate for invasions.
Second, how my fingers recite alphabets
inside your throaty parts,
all salmon and almond and maple-sounding names,
all articulate liquids.
Third, how my tongues translate prayers
up and back with increasing depth,
the shrine is the sex of the saint.
The Book of Kells
Sometimes you really can tell
a book by its cover:
like the Book of Kells, its ink made from lemon
mint and amethyst, its aquamarine illustrations;
like the manuscript of your cunt,
with its folds of jewels and herbs --
page after page of tongue-looting illuminations;
aromatic and shiny not just from the outside,
but from the inside, too.
Your book makes all other pages false.
I've memorized every miraculous lie.
The one true miracle is on the
tip of my tongue way inside you,
like a savior waiting in wet linens,
the folds of your lips
bearing the one true testimony to light.
Posing for an Icon
You spread your legs and angels fly out.
No kidding. I saw them. They weren't the cute, cuntless,
fluffy sort of seraphs,
but angels with sex energy, breasts eager to be bitten,
bellies leaking semen and grace.
This is their miracle -- that heaven is to be had
in every hair of her evangelical cunt, in every
apocalyptic come,
swallowed by the spoonful, still warm.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux