Even The Linguist Goes Silent Poem by Melissa Studdard

The language of your thighs-
decapitated matches
still burning, decapitated verbs
spun loose, your body a woodshed
filled with nouns: goosedimple, cigarette
papers, stack of books in a corner
covered with web, ax with a broken handle.
I grab you there,
make something new, fire.
Make something new,
the wheel, make Twinkies,
a microwave—your colloquial
unfolding. I think you on my lips,
the galactic vocabulary of your kisses.
Make poems of your toes, make novellas
of how light visits your iris. Translate you
into me, transcribe the files—the softest part.
What you told me
is true: In passion, the linguist
goes silent. New galaxies
swarm like gnats,
spin on the startled tongue.