Foreign

I’ll hold my tongue.
Against yours, against all odds,
look: open mouth and it pours.

Your tongue—
stiff, unfamiliar with my language—
how it moves around shapes.

Little details wander into your life,
spread themselves out on the table,
buzzing. And this being inside of me,
it roars, it cannot be appeased.

Tongue turning slowly, ancient machinery,
awkwardly forcing muscles into submission.
Gears grinding the rust of habit away,
shifts that give.

All I can feel is this.