“Touch it,” he says.

My lips graze the tip.

His penis tastes 
like sleep.

In his
hips’ 
hollow,

between
his pincer
thighs, I nestle.

Open-windowed 
sunlight
climbs the walls,

honeys his dear
face. 

I long to inhabit him.

“Do you think 
of your penis 

as an ‘It’ 
or a ‘He’?”

“Neither,” he says.
“I think of it as ‘Me.’”

Bio: Alexis Rhone Fancher