wending its way along
the gentle of my inner thigh.
Not some foreign tongue
whose dialect I cannot discern.
This lingua franca, common between
two lovers, leaves me breathless,
yet still I interpret its meaning.
Some translations cannot be circulated
without the poet’s permission.
Grant me it. Now.
What manner of publication ~
not chapbook,
provincial local newspaper
nor high literary journal ~
suits this love we make?
Permit me my moans, rendering
expressive tonight’s version
of your familiar tongue.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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