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,”
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.