cantaloupe
Snails move into a wedge of cantaloupe, munching through coral flesh toward a rough rind, wiggling in fast motion until the video cuts off. I play it again, feeling saliva leak from the spout beside my molars. You caption the message “us.” I swallow. We won’t share a meal for months; won’t nibble two sides of the same biscuit until our mouths meet, giggling crumbs into one another’s eyes. So, for now, “we are the fastest snails in the west,” I reply.
Before we’re grown, we take everything into our mouths, gathering the texture of the world. Taste is the primary purview of the nose. Scents flick up into nasal cavities, while the tongue and lips fumblingly discern structure. It’s the same in greeting; lips graze the back of a hand then brush against cheeks one two three times. A French kiss probes to learn the contours of another mouth. When well done, with a tongue that never exceeds its welcome. I am still becoming a connoisseur of this body; describe the mouthfeel, another taste. I am prone to gorging myself, but texts of the body are best read with teeth and tongue and lips.
We wrap ourselves together, knowing the gurgle of our stomachs, the beat of our hearts so intimately that when we let go, the echo resonates long after we part. When I can no longer remember the texture of your cheek on my lips, promise you’ll return again. Each tender touch bursting with possibility and caution that we mustn’t be this close for long lest we choke past the rind and turn to consume one another entirely.
Sarah Guilbault (she/they) is an NYC based writer and performer. Some of their writing can be found in Corporeal Lit Mag, Wild Garlic, and Coalition for Digital Narratives. They can be found on social media @guilbobaggins.