Tongue

His knuckles loomed; he swore and spat.
Later, as the tide of sleep
nudged him through the booze,
she dragged his tongue
 
from his head, held it
in the empty bathroom,
watched a drop of him
plop to the plughole.
 
In the morning, she crammed it
into her mouth, was gone before
his dumb feet clumped downstairs,
his jaw clattering with impotent noise.
 
At work, she joked with alien bravado,
stayed quiet between coarse gags,
knew a sudden taste for the sordid.
Chat went. Swearing grew.
 
That night, she nodded at a new knowledge,
then stuffed the purple slab back
inside his cheek, washed her mouth out,
felt the poise return
 
between her cheeks. In the morning
he abused the light
when he saw that she’d gone,
taking all the best words with her.
 

Miles Salter

published in collection, The Border, 2011, Valley Press,
ISBN 978-0-9568904-4-3