The Guttural Tongue
Dan Grossman

Let's make love in Hebrew.
Let's lick the block letters;
the alephs, gimels, and dalets,
into the stone tablets of our bellies. The dry river bed
embanked by my throat's gravel
will glimmer
in your breath's mirage
as we spell out our prophesies
for rainfall. We have no need for vowels
to proclaim this bed exalted,
my love:
we'll cry out our pleasure and pain
in the consonants
of those who've crossed
this desert before.
But a tongue does not itself
a language make:
the throat, at times, must suffice. The tongue, meanwhile, will tremble
in the ecstasy of worship
and desire:
the tongue will be the river bed
of desert sand
that carries water to the garden.
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