Baking the Ginger Boy's Tongue
Jay Carson
"What do you want?"
The white uniformed voice feeds
My anxious sweet hunger, but iced
With the fear of women’s words.
"Then, the ones text to," I said.
"Crumb buns? You want crumb buns?
Or the flopovers, which?" The
Old are hungry for words’ pointing power.
But I have heard Bogart, Cooper,
And my brother’s slang swagger
Too clearly not to taste the rancid in
Feminine scented, sweet words.
"I can’t give you any until you say."
Her eyes bulge at me,
Like muffins rising in the tin.
Finally, timed and done, I rise.
"Crumb buns, crumb buns,"
I cry quickly, through slitted mouth,
Cut open for the first of many times
By the sweet cinnamon of desire.
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