The interview where I was asked, If you could engage in cunnilingus with someone living or dead who would it be? Giving, receiving, or both?
If I think of it as a gift,
a present I could mete out to women
or, most accurately, if I think of it as a gift given
to anyone in possession of a cunnus (that’s Latin),
to anybody owning a cvera (that’s Etruscan,
meaning a venerated such and such, a charm)
if I offered it to all who would part their legs
and call their seed and pome into existence
then I could never choose just one.
I’d sooner lavish cunnilingus upon the masses.
I’m picturing a long line of drizzling asses,
split lips ready for a avid worshiper
like me, to recognize all that raunch beauty.
I imagine my tongue as a team
of baleen whales, older than gender and stark enough to swim
for days on end. For this vocation, my jaw mimics Tiresia,
immortal mandible, an oracle muscle
forseeing the unique desires of each partner.
Will I miss everyday
activity? Folding laundry, reading poetry, dealing repartee
and strategy with colleagues across our cubicles? How will it change me,
being smotherboxed through the ages? Will I become a queen’s settee
or an echo in the canyon? Will my gut bloat mud or honey?
Is there a new genesis in this oral orgy
or have I sworn myself to asphyxial infinity?