many lovers have passed
have asked too much about
things unrelated to the dialect of our bodies
many lovers have opened their mouths
too wide for me not to ignore the sounds
of exaggerated courtships and conquests
too wide for me not to see the teeth
stained by peppered stories of pursuits
but this man, this man in particular
oh, he’s a mouthful alright
in the right places, at the right time
with a language that’s not mine
but the hair standing on my skin comprehends
with neither translations nor explanations
undeterred hands that hold their own language
at the centre of his palms
and they speak to me
sing to me
conversing with me
in tireless twists
moving me on a neat page of cursive inscription
until those proficient hands
bring me as close as one can be
to the soft poetry that flows from the lips
of the gods
The Book Neighbourhood 