Tongue

The way tongues lick and spar without
liquifying down to their chewy centers,
without shedding a drop of blood
or risking dementia in later years,
never fails to inspire sighs of longing,
quickening breath, and cries of love.

Who knew it’s the evolutionary cousin
of the octopus tentacle, so sinuously rolling
its goodies into bite-sized bolus,
and the elephant trunk, strongest muscle
for its size, ready to lift the heaviest
logs of rhetoric or the most delicate flowers
of poetry.

There you go: whistling for the dog to come home,
blowing bubbles in pink sugary gum, shoveling
spit down my throat so I don’t wake up
in a pool of drool every morning.
Just your pound of muscle, taste buds, and mucous
membrane that hardly change over a lifetime.
You are my ironman of orality, my steady eddie.

If only you weren’t the source of worn-out
metaphors—for what won’t come easily to mind
but so many feel is on your tip.
If only God hadn’t insinuated you into two
of His Commandments—that tempting name
in vain one, that satisfying false witness thing.
If only you weren’t the last muscle to stop
moving after death, making me wonder what
you will say—and to whom— without me.