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The Result

Ruth Williams

Long crowded syllables
jockey the mouth like summer oranges.

A cultural liaison wherein
we do not wear suits, but vowels.

Unfamiliar gestures communicate:
orange, small, round.

You fill my mouth. I have a cut lip
and a horse hoof tooth of sting.

Your finger splits my tongue
a third eye, a double-fold to lick.

To regard a gaze is to other it
is to lick it in a swirl.

I'm conflating desire and your language,
but not saying it in your language.

If the lust object is not you.
If the lust object is. Then. Then,

I mistake every man for Asian.

Ruth Williams

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