The Day My Tongue Dropped
by Anish Cherian
The drop features itself among the traffic horde.
Cannot question its discretion, the tongue
Popping out sways and yields along my lips and teeth.
[Certainly the lips more at this instance]
It belongs here, I know this for certain.
Among the countless faces.
The vestigial class that lures around to creep up,
While the tongue drops out.
The cars move by, they move past the drop.
Noticing the drop, these faces discovers itself elsewhere again
The agony of their repetitive materialization,
Submits itself to the dropped tongue.
The dirt absorbed skin passes and remains by the drop
Waving uncontrollably, I lick their faces off the dirt.
I wasn't prepared for this and drove away.
The tongue dropped.
In a closed room or maybe under a certain gaze.
I lick to consume the moans from under her thighs,
Those pressed against the sheets.
Dropping itself out, determined.
Licking out the moaning.
Sometimes I think I carry these sounds around,
In my ears for just such occasions.
It denies to be locked inside, without gratification.
Why will the memories of the moaning then actualize?
And I think I am losing control of the drops.
Then as her legs parted under the bed,
The tongue dropped to enter her skin.
Slithering itself to reach those bloody veins.
[Is their another kind I think? ]
It gets louder in my ears, the sounds I carry around.
Nonetheless, I fix myself on crawling through her skin.
I could not retreat, digging myself inwards.
Growing to assume its optimal decibel.
The sounds of the traffic and its faces don't bother the drop.
Here the moaning is beautifully received,
And the tongue is dropped.