What if my love dripped
rhythmically, like a faucet,
high hat staccato?
I'd lap love up thirstily;
parched again, I'd drum up more.***
Like your refreshing
grape popsicle, I'll drink you
deeply down, until
you can't take it anymore,
hold you on my tongue, swallow.***
At the end of days,
I want to be enveloped--
please, be my pea-pod!
With no future, I'd prefer
for you to ingest me whole.
This week, the Real Toads are writing tanka at the behest of Pirate Grace.
