Quiet Poem by Paul Bogaert

You never hesitate when you speak
and you're a spitting image when you're silent
of somebody who just knows best.
But now a little vomit clings
like words still to your lips,
to your open mouth, you can't make it
leak out, make it speak out.

You must learn to inhale slowly
when I kiss your moist lips,
your goose-flesh tongue.
The uvula needs perfume now:
you should put the atomizer aperture
inside your mouth and squeeze
and swallow, not choke.