Touch my feet with your knees. Jog in place over my calves. Drum on my forehead,
alternating knuckles and wrists, rum-a-tum-a-tum. Lace your fingers into my hair.
Hit my elbow with your elbow. Lie sideways on the checkered linoleum with me,
teal-white-teal-white. Let the backside of your toe-knuckles lick the backside of my ear.
Your shoulder blades cut into my palms. Your thighs wash over my hips. My ribcage
fits into yours. My spine is your spine.
We’re going to get chow-mein down at the Orange Blossom. Lace your fingers with
the noodles and think about my hair. Let Szechuan drum on your tongue with mighty chopsticks and Imperial Chicken. I am Shanghai cuisine. Whisper the pinyin to your belly button: tangcu xiaopai, sweet-sour-sweet. I am inside you. I claw through lusty lipids and into your upper intestines and I say, Konichiwa! Good day! You choke on me as I climb
back up your throat, but you like it. I scratch at your uvula, but you won’t let me out.
You like me in there, though I’m bitter and rub myself on the carpet of your tongue.
