Equal Parts Coffee and Desire by Miri Gould

The taste of you goes wavy
as you begin a dance inside

my mouth with your leading tongue,
even though I’m the movement

instructor. When you put
your lips to mine, I speak

Merengue, Cha-Cha,
Bachata. Rhythm

by divine intervention.
In this space, time

has no edges. It’s fuzzy
and blurry and smeared,

like the lipstick you wipe
off my teeth. Out in the

world, my language is order,
precision, control, and clean

lines, but here, in this loopy,
erotic dimension, I can’t tell

where your lips end
and mine begin.