Tonight's Poet Corner: Jenna's Got Nice Lips

Jenna's Got Nice Lips
by Belinda Roddie

The rotund effect of a pivoting soft palate, the
hot tongued, orgasmic syndrome in a handheld
lover girl against my right hand. In short, she's got
nice lips, and she knows how
to kiss. She knows how to

rub me in all the right backwards ways,
from the spinal transmission of radio euphoria
to the pilomotor reflex up and down my arms
with just one finger, one dark finger,
tracing constellations on the cusp of my
astronomical, heart racing urge to
incinerate the stars,
just to fondle her faster.

Jenna, you
shake me, and you
sugar me up, and you
spice me down with the warmth baked
into my pie crust cortex. You hypnotize
my inner child, and you saturate my
glutton angel. You've got the heat of a
dessert-shaped molten lava spoonful of an
intoxicating climax, served with cold medicine,
peppered with one hundred five degree
fever. You're

fang-toothed, love-thirsty,
pirate treasure-eyed ecstasy wrapped in a
bacon and cheese grit peak of sexual dynamics
from pianissimo to oh, my damn. You're
spitting sparks, reading fortunes at my
front door, where my instincts drop and you
stop me from scuttling back from your smile,
your Italian amore, red wine-drunk
peach schnapp-bubbled flute of wild
what ifs and let's tries, enough to make me
spin like a swivel chair, and you never
let me let you go. You've got more than the

lips to kiss me with - you've got the knack
to give me rapture attacks, and the
art of jubilation is hung
right on the doorknob of your oral "Welcome Home"
vestibule, eager for me to slip in.