This piece was created in response to the following poem by my colleague Dr. Gary Leising, in the English Department at Utica College (I will re-post a better photo in the next day or two... I was just excited to get this posted now):
I have heard of people being born with tails or webbed feet,
so why do you not believe I have a lizard tongue
darting out then in, in then out, testing the air,
tasting the scent of meat on a neighbor’s barbecue.
I tell my wife the cut of pork—loin—the sauce’s
flavor—honey garlic—before my fleshy forked tongue
runs the rim of my thin, nearly nonexistent lips.
Why must it be forked? I wonder at the mirror,
why a snake- or Komodo-dragon-like thing
for years scaring away clients on sales calls, women
in singles bars folding a tiny clutch under an arm,
scooting with Scotch or a martini to a dim corner spot?
I want so little – not even a human tongue,
but a chameleon’s, a long, precise projectile;
from ten feet I could hit Roosevelt’s nose
on a dime. As the daiquiri-drinking busty
blonde moves away, she won’t know what hits her,
a fleshy arrow suctioning to the highest point
of her model perfect, lightly rouged high cheekbone.