Poem from Cecile Rossant
And to his lips which were not yet lips but still tools for speaking I held a finger up to my own, the top and the bottom each thick as a finger: Sh! Sh! Hush! Ssss! I showed him I told him but still his head with its lipless mouth kept on talking.
I knew what to do to bring his arms to paddle the air – crude oil on the joints – and his torso middle to tank up on gas, expand with lust, with love, with lust,
to flutter, flutter, float.
I put my lips to his face, to his manly there-you-are-now-lips and lifted him up with my moist breathing.