I have never written a poem about a penis,
and I never will.
This poem, in fact, is decidedly
not about a penis
despite the assumption one might
have when reading the first line.
Instead it is about
the taste of my girlfriend’s skin right after she’s showered, the way the horizon covers all but the barest hint of light at the end of a sunset, the way fresh bread kisses my tongue, the smell of roses sent by a lover a thousand miles away, the blinking of stars above the graveyard when we sit intertwined in each other’s arms, the way she kisses me on the forehead when I’m sleeping before she leaves for work.
No. This poem is certainly not about
a penis. It is about so much