I used to stick my tongue
out often,
pointed and flexed,
at the culprit. One time,
yours touched
mine, or mine
touched yours--
a pinprick of infection
spread up over
the soft pink bumps,
blooming onto my round
child's cheeks.
But I soon forgot
your tongue, its feel
or taste replaced
by the sand
paper rubbings
of the others
removing the layers
of polish I painted
my tongue pale blue
like my tilted bathtub,
like jake's eyes,
so it was, as if,
I really had
licked the sky.
Swallowing the plaster
of the cracked clouds
over my baby bed,
swallowing it
like rain that cures
the thirst of sailors
with only salt
water in their
blood. In my
blood
running marathons
from tongue
to toes, past tendons,
making blue
red again, making red
blue again. My heart
and lungs a patient
paint factory
with only two
primary colors.