Your eyes like fresh charcoal briquettes
and when I lick them I expect
     to taste burning but instead
     they taste of juniper and lemon zest.

“Do not lick my charcoal eyes,”
     you cry.

Now here I stand,
winding my tongue back into my mouth
     like a disheartened fisherman.

“Is that not why I am here?
     To lick your coal-black eyes
     until the sun breaks o’er the eastern sky;
     to lick them clean from sin
     and all the wicked visions they hold within?”

“God, no. My eyes are dark but what things I’ve seen!
     My charcoal eyes see where you can’t be
     and for you to stand here licking them clean
     is just not at not at not at all
     what my dusty, black, charcoal eyes need.
You’ve never known what my eyes need because you never ask until they weep.”

Pitch black tears crumble down her face.
My overzealous tongue strains to keep its place.


8 thoughts on “Grilled

  1. NeverBeNormalAgain says:

    I have to comment on two things:
    1. You used “o’er” which immediately made me love this poem.
    2. Everything else about it is perfect.

    Thanks for sharing 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I have to comment on your two things:
      1) That really fits there, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s a completely idiosyncratic use – but it somehow fits!
      2) You are a kind mofo and I thank you for stopping by to read and comment.
      Now I’m going to finish my oatmeal and listen to Dr. Dre – straight gangsta.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. For this, I fired up the BBQ and stared into its fiery depths with a great longing for things not at hand and then realizing I had burned my food but ate it anyway because I hate wasting food. 🙂 (Thank you for much for the kind words and for reading this and reading my other stuff.)

      Liked by 1 person

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