May I Be Curious?
Alison C. Rollins
All lovers feel like they’re inventing
something. How else would we work
out the kinks? I am in awe of your
pussy. You said it appears like I am
doing an inspection. True. True.
I lift the hood. I study your anatomy
of flowers and fruit. Mixing food with
sex disgusts you. You hate cantaloupe
and the texture of cherries. Once, you
had a nightmare about being force-fed
grapes. Your eyes change colors when
you laugh. There goes the secret life of
green, witch hazel spells of black magic.
You encourage me to keep climbing as I,
a heathen hymn, teach you the taxonomy
of touch. You, a table of plenty, show me
how to paint by numbers. One is never
enough. Two: my lips at your neck. Another
two: the sound of my name—twin flame
of your own. Four: your hands around my
ankles. I present you with pansies and lilac.
This poem is a form of praise and worship.
In years lived, you’re on page twenty-eight,
and I on page thirty-two. I hope that you
survive me, I do not ever want to go without.