by Evelyn Kuhleman
Men put their tongues in my mouth.
I only sometimes enjoy this.
They look at me,
their fleshy speech organ
in my mouth.
Sloppy fat lost things.
The rarest of men
follow the tension of my lips,
my nostrils flare.
The taste of my kiss tells him what I want.
Freckle faces and mocha color faces.
Vagabond shoes carry these mouths away.
I waste my time, every time.
I am one.
Lone.
Arely Arroyo, Untitled
Midtown: A Journal of Writing and Fine Arts 
“their fleshy speech organ” that’s a fantastic way to put it!