i've been in the mood recently where i write the poem first and then worry about the title later, which is the opposite of what i usually do.

I could give you
a stone--
so smooth and black
you wouldn't believe--
to run my ankles
raw and red
(and how you'd love
to peel the skin
from my nimble bones)
I'll pull it from the creek.
In the silt
I'd bury myself
and you too--
if i cut out
your sour tongue,
taught you how smooth
a stone can be.