Ode to Your Penis

Only yours, Love,
could I pick out
of a line-up,
like in Porky’s,
a movie I would pause
at the scene of the boys
running naked
through the woods—
my first time seeing
penis in a film.
But your two-freckled shaft
would be easy
to spot among
the other tallywhackers
and ding-dongs.
I could recognize it anywhere:
compared with other foreskins,
yours would look dainty,
welcoming, not at all
like a Shar-Pei or turtle
wallowing in its shell.
Blindfolded even,
I could tell your penis
by its weight,
resting in my hand
or by its girth between my thighs.
I could tell it was you
even when cornflower soft,
by the gentle curve to the left.
Tie my hands behind my back, too,
I still would know you
by smell—
clean, like a swimming-supply store,
but also musky,
the woods on the first dry
day of the rainy season.
Even by sound—
the gentle slapping,
like water against a boat,
as you run, still wet and cold,
from the shower to bed.

When exhausted,
but still pumping blood,
I’d recognize the pink
of your corona.
By its turgid color,
I could pick yours out, habibi,
the same purple as when
I was a kid, wrapping rubber-bands
around my thumb until it hurt.