+ Ng Yi-Sheng

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Like any child of Eden, I am fascinated
by things that protrude; give me
the knob of your throat for a juiceful
crisping mouthmark of Washington crunch;
epiglottis, inflamed in man, between oesophagus
and windpipe, who granted you
the right to separate spoken breath
from eaten lump?

I’ll lick you draculawise as you shudder between
the scales of breaking voice;
let me unsnowwhite you, sliding
it up your sauropod neck like a bullet,
swallowed at birth; we’ll take it together
by our tongues, tooth against tastebud,
and realise, as if for the first time
we’re six days old
and naked as ever.