The tongue is more akin to a lasso than a harpoon,
The way it winds itself round words.
Some tie knots in strings and cherry stems,
but this wet mouth-dwelling muscle
Weaves spells with slight and sinew.
In my nose, right now, is the smell of the dark over my primary school on the evening of the Hallowe’en party- it’s 1996 and I am in Year 2.
The taste of chain-hanging fluorescent strip lights in mottled, plastic casing
against the painted gloss-white beams of these Victorian bones will forever swell in my heart.
October is always an invocation- I sense this memory with tongue-tip pressed into the roof of my mouth; in some part, my spirit is there, perhaps my astral body, while my physical is here, bum sunk into butter-corn-golden fabric on the sofa. The spill happens; and, slowly, I come drifting back, reunited with the room.