If sex were drinking,
you would know that I am a finger of whiskey
poured at arm’s length
into a rocks glass
tossed down the throat,
A burn in the gut
some instant of fire
a celebration of a moment that lingers in the mind.
If sex were conversation,
you would know that I’m
a heated argument,
some kind of relentless
until things fall
into beautiful understanding.
If sex were a meal,
You would know that I am
a Cabernet Sauvignon
paired with a medium rare steak,
A steaming baked potato,
and crunchy broccoli with melted butter
If sex were reading
I would be a book of short stories about
Time and Space;
Watching planets revolve around some center,
unknown to me,
unknown to God.
If sex were something else
maybe I could tell you what it meant to me,
Maybe the communication wouldn’t be lost in
the sweat as it evaporated to the ceiling,
maybe things wouldn’t fall away,
walls wouldn’t be constructed
sentiments would be understood
parties would feel gifted instead of cheated.
If sex were something else,
I would roll it up in rice paper
light it up,
smoke it, inhale it,
and exhale it into your mouth as I kissed you.