Grilled

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.

Grilled