the citadel

Your mouth is a citadel
A place where I reside.
Your crooked teeth a serrated sky-line
with me safe inside,
a place that we could go for shelter
in Battletime.
Throw your guns up.

Your tongue… a colossus, a pillar
that the moon sets beneath. To the West.
And rises underneath, where its motion is toward;
Always to the East, 12 to 13 degrees
on the sky’s dome.

I see Styrofoam. Tides.
And my eyes, deep-set as they are,
shine.
A sublingual
jail, surrounded by sea water; into the gulf.
Into the mouth of the whale–
My soul left me and it cried out!
Into the pits of Hell when I died.
And my soul escaped.

In the Old Testament, Hell is a place
where men go to die. Their emotions
Foul, offensive. Arousing.
Aversion or disgust.

Your lips are syrupy and unfermented, a confection
something slowly gratifying.
The stronghold.