Parched

The sun's rays are panting
like dry tongues,
and I've become nothing more than cracked clay
salivating for the humidity
of warm hands to mold me
in the shape of a big-bellied pond

I want to drink love like water,
slosh it about in the belly of my soul,
feel its roots sprout
and cling to the muddy soil
like newborn fingers
that have found a mother to hold

I want to swallow
and be swallowed
quite suddenly, simultaneously
as if sweaty palms and parted lips
were enough to quench
even the thirstiest of tongues

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