At the end of your tongue
there is a bell that does not ring.

You do not conceal it,
won't keep it as a secret
inside your delicate mouth, no,
you dangle it before me,
sharp as a hook,
provoking my body's need
to lunge and claw for it.

But I will not, can not thrust
across this table,
cutting my palms
on the barb of your resolve,

because eyes like knives
glance between us,
shifting in their seats,
they stall the verbs
desperate to trip from my mouth.

My will deflates,
as the blood quakes to your surface,
and the flush of your face reels me.

I want you to slice me
with your voice,
hold it over me,
and drag me,
legs kicking helplessly behind us.

I will make you fall,
body pounding into chest,
breathless,
your words, the hand that
gashes me towards silence.

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