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.