Cary Briel

Restrained, you call me,
but not with words, just a look
through a well-worn door left half-ajar
by absent-minded children.
Despite your quiet
and restraints,
I can almost taste your wetness
even before I drink you in.
I look again.
Your five siblings, they,
still restrained in plastic,
still looking from behind the door,
betray their envy.
You take no note.
You caress
and you awaken my tongue
in ways that others have tried and failed–
lesser gods.
And when I’m finished with you,
I’ll toss you away.
What remains is only salvation
for seabirds
by marriage-bound decree.