would be to swallow the essence of empty.
Though I suppose the stars might fight
their way, poke holes in my esophagus. More
likely, they would melt like marshmallows
on my tongue, tingle for a moment before
escaping into dissolution’s residue. Planets
would vaporate, steam searing my lips,
before floating off toward another sky. My tongue
has never had enough gravity to keep any
worthy orbital. It’s too shallow to carry
that kind of weight, too timid to tolerate that
level of pressure. Still forward it forages,
testing the proffered Milky Way. Cringing,
it remembers, too late, it has never cared for the bitter
taste of straight black.