Take Heed of the Man Missing His Incisor
Come close. Close enough that you can't
tell the whites around my neck aren't pearls.
Close enough that I can massage your gums
with my warm milk and bourbon-dipped
thumb and forefinger; that you eagerly open
your mouth for my brown sugar-dipped lips
and let me suck the roots from the sockets.
Now go. I am not the kind to put boys in
boxes and ship them to the bottom of active
volcanoes: I would rather hear how you
whistle your th's, smile a scared and sacred
homage when you tell them, her, that one...
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