He called me ice cream cone,
so I called him popsicle.
I'm not sure why
other than the sexual
innuendo.
Innuendo
lived in us like water.
It sat in our bodies and whispered
to the walls of our skin.
I wrote poems and drew up cards
with our sugary cold nicknames,
not realizing that we were nothing
but lickable and frozen.
We were just bodies
in each other's worlds.
We were tongues and mouths
and ice cream with chocolate syrup.
There was blood in our veins,
on my fingers,
and in his bed.
He said I tasted like iron
and smelled like orange juice.
Orange Dreamsicles.
Orange sorbet.
Orange soda float.
He tasted like skin and sweat,
like a body left out in the sun.
He tasted like a hinting
innuendo
I didn't yet
understand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem